Musings from the Levant.

(Remember to read these postings from the bottom to the top.)

After the initial tour of Cyprus, it came time for the flight to Beirut. I will save you from the travails at the Larnaca Airport, but suffice it to say, that it was almost Heathrow part two. More Cyprus Airways stoneage antics again. It was a good thing I got to the airport nice and early, 'cause they used up all the time having me go from one side of the airport to the other. I had an e-ticket and they couldn't pull it up in the system at baggage check, but they could retrieve it at the ticket purchasing desk. One hand couldn't communicate with the other.

Once all was settled and I navigated through security, I plopped down on a chair in the departure lounge and pulled out the souvlakia I had bought in Larnaka. (I detoured back to Lakis' Souvlakia and picked one up "to-go".) Larnaka doesn't have jet-ways, so we boarded the cattle cars that trundled out to the plane and carried our bags onto the plane up the stairs. My carry-on is now becoming quite heavy with my breakable purchases, and the nice Brazilian man seated next to me who offered to lift it into the over-head compartment nearly had a hernia getting it up there. Wait till I add my recent Beirut purchases!

The flight to Beirut was amazingly short. It seemed as if we went up, and we went down. Probably no more than the distance from Sacramento to San Francisco. Our approach to Beirut was over the water, so we landed at the moment we saw the run-way. Because it was a late flight (arriving at around 11PM), and it wasn't full, we zipped through customs very quickly, and my driver was waiting for me with a placard that had my name on it. I felt very important to be one of those people... you know... that you see with an entourage. The new airport is on the same site as the old one but very modern.

The road in from the airport is a four-lane, super highway that was carved right out out of city. The driver explained to me that they had knocked down high-rises to create it. One difference between our highways and this one: it is just as wide, but there are no lane-markings. That means that the cars all pack into the space with people cutting each other off, massive honkings, swervings, and pandemonium. It is no different than when the roads were small, it's just more confusing.

Needless to say, it was beddy-bye for me as soon as I arrived at my hotel, The Mayflower. This hotel is one of the ones where my parents would stay when they came to visit me at boarding school. It's a middle-class establishment in the busy Hamra area that we used to refer to as uptown. Downtown was off-limits to the boarders. We were confined to a small, square area of uptown so that no harm would come to us.

I didn't remember Beirut as being so hilly. The outlying hills and mountains are much closer to the city than I recall. In fact, the city climbs right up the sides of the mountains. The hill from our old school to uptown is steeper and longer than I remember.

My first full day in this bustling city was actually spent far away from Beirut itself. Our school had planned a field trip to several valleys, beginning with an impressive Roman aqueduct. We arrived at the aqueduct site at the same time as a contingent of the Lebanese army on a training mission. As we piled out of our busses, the army soldiers began climbing all over the structure and the adjoining hills, wearing not only their army fatigues, but assorted bushes sticking out of every orifice of their clothing. One enterprising fellow had plucked a flowering bush to stuff into the top of the back of his shirt. Once those guys crouched down on the parapets of the aqueduct or on the rocks of the hillside, they really did blend in with the scenery. I can't imagine trying to defend such a vast topography. Here in Beirut, the ubiquitous Lebanese army actually wears concrete-colored camouflage made of rip-stop nylon in various shades of gray and black. We have to be careful what we take pictures of and have learned that if a soldier is anywhere near by, it usually means he is guarding something, so NO PICTURES.

Aqueduct - complete with camouflaged Lebanese army.

On our field trip, we also visited a place where the locals "crack" pine cones with an ancient, rusty machine that belches smoke and clatters deafeningly. They turned it on briefly to show us how it works. One of the workers wore a kaffia (headress) and looked suspiciously like a terrorist...

Pinecone cracking machine.

Pinecone "Terrorist"

We also visited a carob-molasses factory that wasn't making molasses. Turns out they usually make it in the winter time, but our tour-guides thought we should see it. We were served an authentic Arabic meal somewhere up in the mountains, followed by a detour to a river called Nahr El Kalb (the dog river) where there were inscriptions dating from ancient times to more modern times (the second world war).

Gail, Lynn, and I at Nahr El Kalb

At the end of the day, the small group of us from the Mayflower Hotel all piled into the pub next to the lobby for a cold beer. The humidity here is like New Orleans. No one can have a decent hairdo and everyone needs something cold at the end of the day. After that refreshment, we went out for a Lebanese meal.

Tomorrow, I will tell you about today. Now, it's night-night.

Memory Lane part 2.

When I came to the old school yard, where my siblings and I attended the company school as youngsters, I walked down the hill to the small olive orchard that is behind the slide and monkey bar area. I noticed, sadly, that the yellow piant on the bars had peeled, and much rust showed through. I'm sure they hadn't been painted since we last swung on them over thirty years ago. I could hear echoes of Freddy greasing up the slide with wax-paper and then sliding at break-neck speed from top to bottom. This day, it didn't look very far from the top of the slide. I'm sure it seemed farther when someone fell off the ladder backwards as it happened a few times. Enough to knock the wind out of you.

I continued down the little hill to the loop that encircled the homes below. The Blacks lived to the left, the Andrews/Conners at the very bottom. Their homes were not very well cared for. Paint peeled from the eves and from the doors. Plaster had worn through. The road that encircled the Parnell's/Hunter's home in the middle of the area was almost non-existent. Instead of asphalt, it was a crumbling mass of pebbles.

The Black's House

Takis' New Digs (The Andrews'/Conner's Old House)

I took a few pictures and then headed back up to the olive grove to play with the dinky cars I had bought at Mavros the day before. Carefully, I recreated a little clearing with parking places for all the cars under a large, gnarled olive tree that had probably grown there for the last two thousand years. Undoubtedly, it had heard our voices calling to each other in the school yard while we grew up a little bit with them. They were the elders, for sure.

Our Dinks at the Foot of the Olive Tree

Hearing a voice of greeting and inquiry, in present time, I looked up to see a man ducking under the olive branches and taking off his hat. He looked familiar, so I asked him his name. "Christos" he said, and I told him who I was. Kirios Moore's daughter from CMC. "AHHHH," he said. "Tell your father, I am Takis who take care of the pipe in the house." I thought you said your name was Christos... "ChrisTAKIS," he explained. Turns out that he was the plumber for the ex-pat families employed at Cyprus Mines Corp. He now lives in the Andrews' old house (with the chicken coops in the backyard) and he invited me have some refreshment and to talk. I went along with him to his house and we had a lovely chat. He told me how he and his wife had lived in Pendayia "in the old days" and when the Turks invaded, his family had been forced to flee. He lost all his property. So now they live as refugees in this home that used to belong to other people. There is a lot of that in Cyprus.

Takis "who fix the pipe in the house."

At one point, I asked him if he knew Thespina, the woman who used to work in our house. He did and he offered to take me to her house in Katytada, the little village just above ours. We jumped in the rental car and motored up the road to Thespina's. She was so happy to see us and called her sister, Lula, who worked for the Blacks. Much reminiscing followed, with Takis translating when needed. By the time we finished sharing stories, Takis had heard a lot of it twice. I would soon discover that he was quickly becoming an expert on my life...

Takis, Thespina's husband, Thespina, Lula's husband, and Lula

After that, we went in search of Theodora, the very first domestic help we had when we moved to Cyprus. She was like a second mother to me as a young child and I called her Doda. She was delighted to see me (though a little confused at first), and brought out Cyprus coffee and home-made cookies. More questions about my mother, my father, the twins... Takis began to answer before I did!

Takis, Dora's Son-In-Law, Dora's Daughter,
and Theodora (Dora or Doda)

After a lovely afternoon of reconnecting, I took my guide back to his home. Before we parted ways, we walked though the UN camp to see the office where my father worked, the old Orthodox chapel on the hill, and the club (commmunity center) and pool. Several off-duty UN soldiers were lounging in and around the pool. I wanted to say, "Hey! That's ours!" but it isn't any more. Takis and I walked back up the little hill the same way I used to when coming home from the pool. Up the path, up the stairs, and along the hill above the teachers' house.

Dad's Office

The Pool

A very emotional afternoon. Nothing was the same, but it had the same feel. It was as if I were walking through a ghost town. The theme music from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" played in my mind as I wandered through the compound. Tumbleweeds (also in my mind) blew across the deteriorating roads. Cicadas chirped continuously and loudly.

Because Skouriotissa is so close to the green line between the Greek and the Turkish areas, no one comes to pull weeds. No one comes to paint the buildings. Except at the UN colonel's home... our house.

The Managers' Old House
(Burgess and Bakewell)

After leaving Takis in Skouriotissa, I returned to the Economides' home in Kakopetria, hoping to connect with Lefkos. When I went through the creaky gate again, I was met by Lefkos' wife Eleni (the phantom voice from downstairs on my first go-around). She explained to me (in broken English) that Lefkos had waited for me for several hours and then had left to attend a town wedding. After we chatted for a few minutes while she braided her hair, she decided to telephone Lefkos (he must have been enroute to the wedding, perhaps stopping at his favorite watering hole). Several minutes later, Lefkos came striding across the asphalt of the gas station next door with his customary wide and welcoming grin on his gentle face. We greeted each other and I explained who I was. As usual, it took a minute for him to really register what I was saying. After he finally got it, he re-explained that he was attending a wedding as a representative of his family and so had to rush off. When I offered to return in the morning, he and his wife invited me to lunch. Apparently, their daughter and son-in-law would be coming out from Nicosia and they would be delighted for me to join them.

With that settled, I returned to my hotel where I enjoyed a typical Cyprus meze in their quaint restaurant, complete with live Greek accordion music. The spread included stuffed grape leaves (koupepia), Greek salad, olives, yogurt, and halloumi which I washed down with a small glass of sweet, Cyprus wine (Commandaria).

Cyprus Meze

That night in my little hotel room, I was treated to my first experience with rowdy British tourists in the adjoining room. Those old Cyprus houses may have thick adobe outside walls but the newer inside walls must be made of paper. My neighbors watched television till about 2AM and then talked and laughed for another hour or so. They settled down just in time for the village roosters to begin crowing. By that time, I was so distraught I had trouble falling asleep. What a night!

My morning shower revivied me sufficiently for me to check out of the hotel and drive to the Economides house at the appointed time for lunch. By this time in my travels, however, my curling iron was non-functional because of a blown transformer. I had purchased it at a store in Fair Oaks for the sole purpose of using it with the curling iron. When I got it home, before I left on this trip, and realized that the wattage of the transformer was less than the specifications on the curling iron, I tried to exchange it for a more expensive transformer that could handle the load. Oh no, the owner of the store assured me. If I used the curling iron on the lowest setting, it would be fine. Trust me. We've never had a problem with that before. Well, I guess there's a first time for everything. I tried the curling iron on my first day at the Lysithea Hotel, where it heated up almost as much as the curling iron. From then on, nada. No transformer, and by default, no curling iron.

So, I showed up on time and somewhat mop-headed at the Economides'. I was introduced to Lefkos' daughter, Phrosso and her husband, Andros, who had driven out from Nicosia that morning. Andros was educated in London, and Phrosso in London and New York (she has her Masters Degree from Cornell), so they conversed in English easily, as did Lefkos. Only Eleni, Lefkos' wife, had trouble with English, so for her I did my best to speak in the little Greek I remembered and the others translated when appropriate. We lunched on tender, slow-cooked lamb, artichoke hearts, and potatoes with a dessert of watermelon. The first of the season for them, they said.

Lefkos told about how he went searching for a job after Cyprus Mines Corporation's demise following the Turkish invasion. His little gas station didn't bring in enough revenue to provide for his family with two grown children in college overseas. One day, he answered an ad in the paper looking for someone to work for a start-up company in Riyaad, Saudi Arabia. He sent in his qualifications, including his experience working for CMC, and waited for a response. When they replied, they told him he was just the man they were looking for and could he start in a week. Just like that, he was off to Saudi Arabia.

Lefkos recalled that Riyaad was a dirty, uninviting city when he first went there. The construction company that hired him was charged with cleaning things up and creating new buildings to bring the city into the modern age. Lefkos and his team of Cypriots were instrumental in accomplishing this task in three short years. Today, Riyaad is a bustling, western style metropolis in the midst of a desert. What was meant to be a short-term job turned into ten years of working away from Cyprus with occasional visits back home.

Lefkos recounted another story about how he acquired his first wheels. Back in the early days of Cyprus Mines Corporation, when Lefkos and his wife were still living down the hill in a little town called Petra, the Cyprus government purchased about a half dozen motorcycles. I believe they were leftover from World War II somehow. The government made them available for purchase to people who demonstrated a need. Lefkos went to the manager of CMC, Mr. Hendricks, and asked him to write a letter recommending that his employee be permitted to purchase one of the motorcycles. According to Lefkos, because Britain governed Cyprus at the time, and CMC was in tight with the governor, a word from the manager of the company carried some weight with the reigning bureaucrats. Mr. Hendricks obliged, and in no time, Lefkos had bought himself a motorcylcle for something like 50 pounds. Instead of riding his bicycle up the hill from Petra, he could now use motorpower. Within a couple of years, Lefkos was able to sell the motorcycle at a profit (about 150 pounds) and buy himself a small used car, a forest-green Mini that I recall him driving to work daily.

The group wanted to hear about my exploits and impressions of Cyprus after being away so long. When I mentioned that I had purchased some mosphilo jelly in Limassol, Eleni proudly brought out some of hers that was homemade. She gave it to me as a gift. To this, she added a couple of bags of dried spearmint from her garden. (Now that I am home, I am pleased to report to Eleni that her mosphilo jelly trumps the other stuff, hands down. It is so much more flavorful.) I began to wonder how I was going to get all these jars home in my carry-on bag. It was getting heavier by the minute!

Before I left on the rest of my journey, Phrosso and Androse encouraged me to give them a call when I returned from the Beirut portion of my trip. We took some photographs, exhanged hugs and kisses all around, and I took off over the mountain road to Paphos. ('Now you be careful overtaking," admonished Lefkos in his fatherly way. I assured him that I wouldn't be doing anything like passing other cars on those narrow roads.)

Andros, Lefkos, Phrosso, and Eleni

Lefkos, Mop-head, Phrosso, and Eleni

On my way out to the car, Phrosso asked me if I would like to accompany her and her mother to the little church down the street where they go occasionally to pray. They wanted to light a couple of candles. Apparently, Eleni has the key because she takes care of the church in some capacity. According to Phrosso, the church dates back to around 1100AD and is a historic treasure. At some time in the past, the Turks supposedly scratched out the eyes of some of the saints in the frescoes on the walls. Nevertheless, the paintings are beautiful. I was honored to be allowed to see the inside of this special landmark. After a few minutes, I said goodbye to allow Phrosso and her mother their quiet moments alone in the church.

Eleni lighting a candle in the church.

Frescoes in the Church (from around 1100AD)

I was sad to leave Lefkos and his clan. They treated me so warmly and so kindly, as if I were a member of the family. But I resolved to call Andros and Phrosso when I returned to Cyprus from Beirut, and off I went on the road to Paphos.

Paphos is an ancient city on the West coast of Cyprus. It's not quite as touristy as Limassol but there are some beautiful resorts in an area to the north called Coral Bay. I found an apartment hotel I had seen on the internet, but the front doors were locked. After some searching, I determined (through a young workman on the grounds) that the hotel had been purchased the previous week by a new owner and was being renovated. In other words, it was closed.

Paphos was hosting a Spring Flower festival that evening and the main seaside drag was closed to automobiles for a parade. This snarled traffic and made the journey back to the other end of the town take twice as long. On my way into town, I had inquired about a room at another hotel just in case I didn't find the Dimitea Apartment Hotel. By the time I returned to the back-up hotel, the Russian receptionist had given away the room she promised to hold for me because I took so long. Not to worry, she came up with another one. While it wasn't the Ritz, it would do. I stowed my things and went in search of an internet cafe.

I wish I had had more time to spend in Paphos. The next day, Monday, I was booked on a Cyprus Airways flight at 10PM to Beirut and I had a lot to do before then. I had resolved to go back into Limassol to pick up something I saw for my sister, and I had made arrangements to visit the family of a friend in Nicosia during the lunch time. This friend's friend, a Cypriot named Lakis, is the manager of the Lexus dealership in town, and his Dutch wife, Marjolijn, is a translator. Lakis had made an appointment for me with a man at Price Waterhouse to talk about the feasability of setting up a chiropractic practice in Cyprus (just in case I ever get the desire to return there.)

Amazingly enough, on Monday morning, without knowing where I was going, I turned on my inner radar and, on the first try, drove right to the little shop I was looking for in old Limassol . From there, I motored into Nicosia to keep all my appointments, and drove all the way back to the Larnaca airport by 8PM. The car-hire guy had given me instructions to take a ticket from the machine upon entering the car park, park the car anywhere, and then, leaving the car unlocked, place the key and the ticket under the mat. How casual and how trusting! You'd never find a rental company in the US doing that!

Larnaca Airport On the Way to Beirut

Now the Beirut portion of my journey...

Picture posting.

The theater at Khourion between Limassol and Paphos.

Kolossi Castle

Aphrodite's Rock near Paphos in southern Cyprus.

Trip Down Memory Lane.

Saturday was the big day: the day to go back to my roots.

Following the map and my memory, I drove out of Nicosia, the capital city, on a new, two lane highway towards the foothills and my old home. (Yes, I have come from the foothills in Cyprus to the foothills of California. Not such a far journey, really!) I recognized many landmarks and deviated from the main road often to revisit the little villages that we used to have to pass through on the long way into town. Had I traveled the new highway exclusively, I would have reached my goal (Kakopetria) in about forty five minutes. As it was, I probably took two or three times as long, savoring the journey, not focusing only on the destination.

Peristerona

I stopped in a little town called Astromeritis to purchase some fruits and vegetables at a little market. This used to be a place to find watermelon stands when they were in season. In the old days, the farmers slept out in the fields to guard their precious produce. We would see their iron beds out in the middle of the fields as if they had sprouted there during the night, right along side the watermelons. I understand the farmers still do that, but they now have their houses very close by. I did not see either beds in the fields, or watermelon stands. I think the farmers probably sell their harvest directly to the stores. Nowhere did I see the solid, round, dark green variety that we loved so much. The one I bought previously, in Larnaca, was striped and "seedless". Pity! The seeded ones are always better.

Church in Astromeritis

I made the turn towards the mountains and headed past our home-area to a small town where we used to go for souvlakia called Kakopetria.

Kakopetria

It is the closest town that would have adequate lodging. Unfortunately, the hotel where I had hoped to stay, The Mill (Mylos), was fully booked, so I went in search of an alternate. I saw a sign for a little inn that I had remembered reading about on the internet: The Linos Inn. So I stopped in to see if they had a room. Turns out they did. This little hotel is comprised of many smaller, private homes that had been renovated and joined up to make a more modern accomodation. Though the room was very small, it was more than adequate for me. It had a private bath, and that was my main need. They even had a hair-dryer to loan guests. Very uptown!

Room at the Linos Inn (Upstairs)

After a quick souvlakia in the town, I jumped in my rental car and headed down the hill on the old road towards home. Right away, I saw a gas station that had been owned by a man who worked in my father's office for over 30 years. His name was Lefkos Economides. I pulled into the station and asked the attendant if he knew Lefkos (in the best Greek I could muster after only three days!). Well, sure, right next door, pointed the man. I walked in through the creaky gate and knocked at the door. From down in the garden below a voice asked what I wanted. Again in my best Greek, I asked if Lefkos was in. After some gesturing and talking, I deduced that Lefkos was (very wisely) taking a siesta. I should come back later.

Back in the car I went, down the hill, through the various little villages we passed through a million times in my young years. It all seemed much faster this time, even though I drove slowly. Time compresses as you age, I think. The copper mine loomed ever larger as I approached.

First View of Skouriotissa Mine

Finally, after turning the wide corner to the right and passing through the canopy of olive trees, the sign for Skouriotissa appeared, almost hidden in the bushes to my left. I had to get out and take a picture before proceeding, making the moment last before seeing our old house for the first time.

Skouriotissa Sign

Slowly, I turned the corner around the slag from the old, Roman copper mine. There, in front of me, past a small field of weeds that used to be my mother's vegetable garden, was our house.


It was in pretty good shape as it is now inhabited by the Colonel of an Argentinian UN force based in our small "village". The rest of the homes in our area did not look so good. Paint was peeling, doors hung askew. Because of the invasion by Turkey, and this area being so close to the green line (the UN-controlled, "no-man's land" demarkation between the Turkish side and the Greek side), no-one is available to keep up the place. Perhaps things will change if and when reunification takes place.

Our House.

Our house had green shades on some of the windows to keep it cool inside. The paint was relatively fresh: white for the walls and red for the trim. The yard was nicely mowed and the oleander bushes along side the fence were trimmed. I'm glad it was well taken care of. I went up to the front door, but no one answered my knock. Perhaps sleeping like Lefkos.

I left my car parked under the Cypress trees, as we used to in days gone by, and strolled down the street towards our old school house. The school yard was encircled by loops of barbed wire because the school itself is now the officers club for the UN.

School Yard (complete with barbed wire)

*******

I will pick up the story next time as my internet time is now running short. Stay tuned for the second chapter in my stroll down memory lane...

Dr. Aphrodite's Rock.

No, that's not a new pop song!

Yesterday was tourist day, and the last part was spent watching the sun slowly set behind a place where Aphrodite, or Venus, was supposed to have emerged from the foam. Three rocks of various sizes were purportedly thrown into the water by an angry Greek god. The proper name for the place is Petra Tou Romiou, which means, Rock of the Greek. The legend says that Aphrodite was born here.

Petra Tou Romiou just before sunset.

Earlier in the day, I set off in my rental car for the town of Limassol or Lemesos. I drove through the uninviting tourist section, filled with hotels and restaurants and then came back to the old town. After parking the car, I wandered the narrow, winding streets and bought some familiar local delicasies: Cyprus honey, mosphilo jelly, and some sotzouko (a rubbery grape and almond sweet) for my sister. For all you essential oil lovers, I also purchased some supposedly pure rose oil for three Cyprus pounds (6 bucks). YUUUCK! For the purists, it wasn't pure! I left it for the hotel maid. It was passable as perfume, but not as a therapeutic oil. Take a lesson: you get what you pay for!

As the intense Cyprus sun rose higher into the sky, and all the smart locals retreated indoors for their afternoon siesta, this crazy American with no hat on, drove out through the orchards to the west of Limassol to find Kolossi Castle and the ruins at Khourion. I say crazy, because when I got to the ruins, high on a hill and in the beating sun, I traipsed around there for a couple of hours while I got culture, and sizzlingly hot.

Episkopi Bay from Khourion

I digress for a moment for the benefit of my family. On the way out to Kolossi Castle, I drove down lanes that reminded me of another part of the island where we lived (Morphou). Evergreen trees lined the roads and orange orchards stretched out as far as the eye could see. I passed a couple of strawberry growers, too. One had introduced an innovation: he had planted his strawberries in green houses, up on some kind of rack. The strawberry plants hung down from the trellises presumably so that the strawberries did not get crushed or moldy on the ground.

I wish I could upload pictures of the Castle and the ruins. They were awesome. When I return home, I will post pictures. The internet cafe where I am currently sipping a carbonated soft-drink (orange Kean) does not have the capability of uploading pictures. (Enclosed photos were uploaded upon my return.)

After taking in the ruins at Khourion, I drove down to the beach below, put my feet up on a yellow plastic chair at the café, and ordered a local beer (Keo). When the family at the table next to me ordered Kalamari, I decided to partake also. So, with the gentle waves of the Mediterranean lapping below me, I sipped my glass of beer and munched on some rather rubbery octopus rings. (I think the octopus must have been a Grandpa, cause the rings were about two inches in diameter and tasted as if he had been around the Mediterranean a few times. I'll take the Calamari in Bodega Bay instead!) I dipped my hot, tired feet in the cool water and headed off toward Paphos to see the afore-mentioned birthplace of Aphrodite.

Ahh, the beer that refreshes!

My day was complete and I tumbled into bed around 11PM.

********

Today, I am in the capital of the island, Nicosia. The main street, Ledra Street, used to be open to automobile traffic but is now a pedestrian mall. When I was little, we would come here about once a month to shop. Mom would schlep us up Ledra Street and back down the next one (Onosogoras Street). In the summertime, the stores closed at 1PM for siesta, so we had to be sure to complete all our shopping before then. It was a mad dash up one street and down the next. Imagine cars going along the narrow street, Vespa motorcycles weaving between the cars, everyone honking madly, and people in and out of shops. If you wanted to pass someone walking toward you on the narrow side-walk, you might have to step into the street. Watch out for the cars! Not enough room for cars and people. Honk honk! People drive with their horns here!

Looking towards Ledra Street.

Ledra Street "Mall".

Tonight, I will have dinner at the home of some family friends, the Kyriakides'. They own a chain of toy stores (Mavros) here on the island.

Dinner with Tonis and Othan Kyriakides
in Strovolos

Tomorrow, I plan to drive into the foothills to Kakopetria and Skouriotissa, where we used to live. Can't wait!

I'm in heaven!

Finally, I'm here! And it was all worth it. At this particular moment, I am sipping an ice cold grapefruit juice in an internet cafe in the beach town of Larnaca. When I arrived at my hotel at the break of dawn, I was much too excited to sleep. I tried. I really did! But the morning sun crept onto the bed, through the open sliding glass doors, and the deafening cacaphony of the local birds chirping kept me from nodding off for too long. It's all good. I remember well how the sound of the birds would fill my room as a young girl on my first morning of summer vacation. The air felt so light... and summer stretched before me, long and inviting.

Bright and Early
from my hotel room at the Lysithea Hotel

So, I'm clattering away on this modern computer in a modern internet cafe, with a modern example of tinny Greek music playing in the background. It's truly an updated version of days gone by. The drink is not luke warm. The chairs are shiny metal in modern, curly shapes. Used to be that we would sit on wooden chairs with woven seats, bazooki music would be blaring on the radio, and the proprietor would bring out small, worn bottles of spit-warm Coca Cola, with a straw in them that was too short for the bottle. After you had drunk a few sips, you'd lose the straw into the bottle and would have to keep fishing it out to take another drink.

Earlier, after a hasty shower, I went next door to the market and bought some halloumi (local sheep's cheese for the uninitiated), Greek olives, and pitta bread for my room. I also found a medium sized local watermelon, a Cyprus orange, and an apple, that the shopkeeper threw in for baksheesh. As I was carrying my shopping bags back to the hotel, the rental car driver was pulling up with my car. Great timing! Murphy must have stayed behind in London. After I stowed my stuff in my room, I taught myself about driving on the lefthand side and took off for the town of Larnaca. (My apartment hotel is in a quieter area near the beach.) I parked my car in the car park and have been meandering the winding back streets of town. In a bakery, I found a small loaf of local bread (psomi) and a hefty piece of baklava. This will be dessert or an afternoon snack when I get back to my room.

Tourist shops in Larnaca

A side street in Larnaca
(notice how they park whichever direction they want)

Beach-Front Promenade in Larnaca

This afternoon, I may bask in the sun for a little while and then take off to do some more exploring.

I will end by mentioning the intense emotion I felt when I exited the airport this morning. As I looked out my hotel window and listened to those chirping birds I had a deep feeling of ownership. The birds were MY birds. The sun was MY sun. The eucalyptus tree by my balcony was MY eucalyptus tree.


Stay tuned for more stories from Paradise.

Murphy's Law.

Well, folks, here I am in Heathrow Airport in the middle of the Murphy's Law of all Murphy's Law journeys. Three hours into the flight from SF to London, a passenger keeled over in the emergency aisle (how appropriate). Poor man had a heart attack, just after eating United's aweful dinner. No accident, as far as I'm concerned.

The flight attendants called for medical personnel, and a woman MD showed up. I offered some assistance with my bag of tricks, but they weren't interested. Pity, as the man could have done with some good essential oils at that moment, I'm sure. A little stimulation of the acupuncture points for the heart... some calming magnesium... he might have jumped up off the floor and exclaimed, I'm healed! But, NO! The pilot decided to divert us to Winnepeg (another hour behind us). So we turned around and flew back to their sleepy little airport. They didn't even have a jetway that would fit our plane... so we waited on the tarmack while the fire engines twirled their lights outside the window and the paramedics waited to board the plane. To make a long story short, three hours later, we took off again for London.

Needless to say, I missed my connection with Cyprus Airways here in jolly old England. The next chapter could have come right out of the movie, "Terminal", with Tom Hanks. First, United directed me downstairs to take the bus to another terminal to plead with Cyprus Airways to put me on another flight. They claimed they had no responsibility to help me out with a connection because I had booked my flights separately.

Just as a group of us were boarding the bus for the other terminal, the same agent came tearing out to pull us off and tell us that they now would help us find seats on another flight (I wasn't the only one given bogus information). That required going back upstairs and THROUGH SECURITY again. After waiting in line for 45 minutes, the ticket agent gave me a seat on a much later flight, but said that I would have to go to the other terminal to get a new ticket from Cyprus Airways. Back and forth again, and again. I had to go through passport control, enter England, get my ticket changed at the departure desk, then go back through security again. My carry-on bag has been irradiated so many times today, I think it's glowing! I'm past caring if the essential oils go through the x-ray machine. At this point, I bless them, and send them on through.

Here I am in the departure terminal, ready to go through passport control one more time to board my flight to Cyprus. I should land around 4AM, make my way through customs, try to find a taxi at that God-forsaken hour, and wend my way to my hotel. Hopefully, they won't have given away my room yet.

My Cyprus Airways Plane

Everyone reading this pitiful saga, take one moment to send me some good vibes for a smooth journey... the remainder of one, anyway.

To (mis)quote Murphy, hopefully, everything that can go wrong already has. Soon, I will be basking in the sun in a deck chair at the Lysithea Beach Apartment Hotel.

(Yawn) G'night.

Waiting for my flight...

Won't be long now. Do I look sufficiently like the Ugly American?

"De plane, de plane!" That's it: I'm taking a trip to Fantasy Island!

Andiamo!

I'm packing my bags, reserving my hotels, and checking out rental cars - counting down the days until I catch my United Airlines flight to London with a connecting flight on Cyprus Airways to Larnaca, Cyprus. At this point, I'm getting a little excited, but also somewhat nervous about the little things: driving on the lefthand side for the first time (I think I'll splurge for an automatic so I don't have to learn to shift with my left hand while watching out for those other vehicles coming at me on the WRONG side of the road); will the island be over-run with rowdy tourists and tacky hotels?; can I drive across the border in North Cyprus easily and efforlessly and will they let me stay for a few days?; should I rent a cellphone or does mine have international roaming?; I hope I can work the computers in the internet cafes so I can add to this blog... I guess those are kinda big things. No doubt it will all work out.

Stay tuned as the time draws near. My first post will be from Larnaca Cyprus at an internet cafe, so we'll see how well it all works!