Whirlwind Tour of Greece with Emerson

On Olympus.

Emerson up top. Reminds me of the cover artwork from Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Zarathustra

Gam in Ancient Agora - Athens

Gam in Koukounaries - Skiathos

Hotel Balcony Gam - Skiathos

Backgammoning...I mean Backpacking Through Greece With Emerson

Where do I begin? Emerson came to visit for twelve days. During the few moments that we weren't playing backgammon (we literally played over 300 games during his visit), we experienced a plethora of what Greece has to offer: three days in Athens; a quick stop in Delphi; a seven-hour layover / severe windstorm in the small town of Levadia; three days in Thessaloniki; a Mount Olympus climb; and a bus, two trains, and a ferry en route to the island paradise of Skiathos. I could describe in detail each roll of the dice during each 'gam' battle, or I could describe every minuscule detail of each leg of our travels, but for now I'll stick to Olympus -- a definite highlight of the past twelve days. Without further ado:

"Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson (not to be confused with James Alex Emerson)

The quote above rings true in many aspects of life. However, if taken literally whilst climbing Mount Olympus, following Ralph Waldo's advice could lead to trouble. Sidenote: Ralph and Waldo are both awesome yet somehow unpopular names. If I hadn't vowed to name my first-born Otis (regardless of gender), both of these names would be in the running; maybe my second- and third-born babies will receive these names...Where were we? Ah yes, while ascending Mount Olympus -- or any mountain for that matter -- sticking to the trail is usually a good idea.

Alex and I were tested physically and mentally during our hike to the thrown of Zeus; the experience was surreal. Physically, we traversed several different ecosystems during the two-day, 2900 meter (roughly 9500 feet) climb. For any STM elementary school alum readers, it was like stepping into and voyaging through the notorious biome project we all had to complete in Mrs. Fink's 5th grade class. The overall climate change resembled a journey from grassland to forrest to tundra. We experienced a wide variety of temperatures and precipitation on the way up: a light rain became a heavy rain became a light hail became snow. Bottom line: Zeus was testing us with increasingly inclement weather, but we pushed on.

After about five total hours of moderately difficult hiking, we reached "Refuge A", a log cabin-esque hostel and our home for the evening. We were wet from the assorted types of water that Zeus had flung at us during our trek, and the refuge was freezing; somehow the temperature inside was much colder than the snow-covered peaks we would encounter the next morning. So it goes. After the long day of hiking, we were exhausted. We rolled a few games a gam, carbo-loaded with a pasta dinner, then fell into a deep slumber (fully clothed and bundled in three blankets) by 7:45 pm. Yes, you read that correctly: a 7:45 bedtime. To put it in grandparent friendly terms, we were in bed just after Wheel of Fortune and sound asleep before final Jeopardy.

The next morning we were up early and on the trail by 8:00; we were off the trail and crawling slowly up a steep, snowy cliff by about 9:30. Ralph Waldo would have been proud; Mama Edeline would have been terrified. Zeus had taken the liberty of painting the upper trail with a fresh layer of snow the day before, so we unknowingly hiked directly off the trail into a terrain consisting of loose rocks and slick, icy snow. It was one of those experiences, of which I've had several this year, that puts things into perspective. To an emotionless, 9500 foot mountain, a few pesky human beings are nothing; to Zeus, all mortals are expendable. It was hair-raising for a while, but once we appraised our situation for what it was, Emerson located the proper trail and we got back on track.

The trip down was fast but bizarre. As we descended, we came across a large section of forrest where most of the trees were snapped in half or totally uprooted. The destruction was obvious and thorough, yet we hadn't noticed the damage the day before during our ascent; it played with our minds. Did a violent windstorm crush thousands of trees overnight? Wouldn't we have heard something? Were we physically and mentally exhausted and hallucinating? Did we simply not notice on the way up? We also came across a set of peculiar footprints that resembled those of a goat, however they were in sets of two instead of four; we joked that the tracks belonged to Pan, the half-goat half-man Greek god who was known to enjoy tricks and illusions. As weirder things occurred, such as several segments of the mountain looking identical as if we had gone in a large circle, the Pan explanation became less of a joke and more of a frightening possibility. Bizarre things were happening on that mountain, and our main concern became getting down the mountain. We eventually reached the bottom safely, celebrated with a gyro, then hopped a bus back to Thessaloniki. The whole experience was exciting, challenging, and mysterious -- one might even say mythical.

Having Emerson around was a blast. We experienced so much of Greece; played gammon until our eyes, necks, and Emerson's wallet hurt; and -- just like when Amos visited -- having such a good friend around created nonstop laughter for twelve days to the point of stomach pains.

I'll be home in about two weeks. I'm not ready to leave, but I can't wait to see everybody.

Toumba 2.0

Dear Worthy Reader,

I have betrayed your trust. I need to come clean. I lied in my last post when I claimed that I wouldn't return to the Toumba. James Alex Emerson, all honor to his name, came to visit and we decided to attend PAOK's final home match of the season (sans tickets of course). The experience was comparable to my first journey into hell -- however this time a monster showered me in vomit, Emerson and I each left with swiss-cheesed garments thanks to sparks from nearby flares, and our section turned into a mosh pit several times over the course of the match. After PAOK scored a goal, I was thrown into the air only to land several rows down on a massive, shirtless, tattooed creature. He gave me a slimy hug to celebrate the goal then tossed me back up to my original perch. I also smuggled in a camera and shot a short video of the madness. Enjoy:

Inside the Toumba aka "This is Iraq!"

Emerson and I scurried around Athens last weekend, climb Mt. Olympus tomorrow (Zeus's temper permitting), and are camping in the Greek Islands this weekend. Giggity goo.

With Emerson at the Game

Paok and Aris Pictures

Americans Eddie Johnson and Freddy Adu warming up for Aris.

At Aris Stadium. The End of the World or a soccer game? You be the judge.

A picture from the PAOK - Aris match (not taken by me). I was literally standing in the middle of the section that appears to be on fire.

Greek Soccer Monsters

First division Greek soccer or the 'Superleague' leaves much to be desired for a soccer enthusiast. It is a third-tier league in Europe where players who can't hack it elsewhere in Europe fizzle into ambiguity and 35-year old has-beens wind down their careers. Level of play is comparable to the MLS with more fouls, fights, and dramatics. Aris, one of Thessaloniki's professional teams, signed two American players -- Freddy Adu and Eddie Johnson -- in January so I've followed the league more closely and attended several matches in the past few months. Due to the low level of play on the field, Greeks have turned spectating into an extreme sport and the primary means of entertainment at games. Having attended professional and international soccer matches in nearly ten countries, I can unconditionally say that Greek fans are the most deranged.

To label Greek sports supporters as fanatics or hooligans would be a massive understatement. I put 'fanatic' into an online thesaurus in search of the correct term to describe them -- but zealot, extremist, militant, dogmatist, devotee, adherent, sectarian, bigot, partisan, radical, diehard, and maniac all come up short. Simply put, they are monsters. Thus I will henceforth refer to them using the synonyms for monsters. Some teams may have less-extreme savages, however the brutes of the two major clubs in Thessaloniki make the Green Street Hooligans (movie about a group of binge-drinking, trash-talking, brawl-seeking British soccer enthusiasts) look like girl scouts. Supporters of visiting teams are not allowed inside of stadiums because the atmosphere at 'matches' (perhaps better described as riots) are too barbarous.

Thessaloniki has three first division professional athletic clubs: PAOK, Aris (the Greek God of War), and Iraklis (Hercules). Each club has basketball and volleyball teams as well, but the soccer barbarians are the most outrageous. Of the three, PAOK and Aris are most noteworthy because they have larger followings of ogres (not the friendly kind like Shrek), they are bitter rivals, and I have attended 'matches' at both of their stadiums. I will focus on the PAOK monsters because I recently attended a match, but I'd like to make clear that Aris beasts are equally unruly in their own stadium.

As in any metropolis, Thessaloniki features copious amounts of graffiti; ninety percent of the graffiti relates to soccer. 'PAOK', 'ARIS', and profane attacks on the two teams are spray-painted on office buildings, schools, buses, churches, stores, baby strollers, bridges, historic monuments, and foreheads throughout town. Team allegiance seemingly trumps loyalty to God, country, and family in Greece.

My experience at a PAOK vs. Aris playoff match last week was surreal; I legitimately thought I was witnessing the apocalypse. PAOK hosted the match at the Toumba, their anything-goes home stadium. I attended the match with Becky, an American friend who had been to the Toumba once before. Apparently tickets were unnecessary because it's Greece and laws don't exist, so we approached the stadium about an hour before kick-off donning black shirts in a feeble attempt to blend in with the PAOK crazies.

As we neared the stadium, we waded through a sea of screaming, chanting, burping, eating, boozing PAOK thugs. Dozens of fires burned in dumpsters and random areas around the stadium. The sidewalk became a carpet of broken glass, and a haze of smoke engulfed us -- but not the typical cloud of cigarette smoke that cloaks the rest of Greece; this smoke was different. All of a sudden, my respiratory system was on fire. I started violently coughing due to inhalation of a mystery toxin. I looked at Becky as tears began to pour from both of our faces. Disoriented, we crouched and staggered blindly around the perimeter of the stadium. We both instinctively rubbed our eyes hoping to stop the burning until a deep voice bellowed from somewhere in the haze. "Don't rub. Don't touch your eyes. Don't put water. Never rub your eyes after tear gas. Only lemon juice can help." My mind raced. Is that you, Zeus? Tear gas? We just got tear gased?

We removed our hands from our faces and glanced up to see a mountain of a man among a group of hard-nosed, large, hairy Greek PAOKites. They sized us up, then the giant spoke again in English with a hint of a Greek accent, "Where are you from?" They know we're not from here. They don't like outsiders. We might die.

"Uh. We're Americans."

"Are you here alone?" The next question could easily be 'What do you want on your tombstone?' I would answer 'cheese and pepperoni' to honor the brilliant mid-90s ad campaign by the frozen pizza company, but I'd prefer to continue living.

"Um. Yep."

"Are you trying to go to the match?" Not if it in any way offends you, sir.

"Yes."

"Do you have tickets?"

"No."

He leans in and whispers to his cronies, then turns back to us.

"You're Americans, you came alone to the Toumba without tickets, and you want to go to the game?" Busted. Becky and I could only grin and shrug. Hearing him sum up our current situation made the idea sound much riskier and foolish than when I'd hatched the plan a few days prior. He continued, "You two are insane. You must be PAOK fans. You're coming in with us."

"Sweet. Game on."

And off we went into the notorious Gate 4, the fabled home of the wildest fans in Greece. We walked directly into the gate in a group of about thirty; nobody had tickets but the gate employee was apathetic and powerless against the mob. A massive bottleneck ensued in the stadium tunnel and we got pushed, humped, carried, and swept into the crowd. Our enormous escort led the way through the horde of demons directly to the epicenter of the chaos.

Glass bottles, fireworks, water bottles, streamers, burning flares, and nonstop profanity flew through the air toward the field. Aris shirts and flags burned everywhere. The only man I saw dressed in security garb waved his hands ecstatically to pump up the crowd rather than discipline anybody. When the Aris players ran to the tunnel after warming up, they were showered with debris from the stands. Not cool. When an Aris player went down injured during the game, the crowd emphatically heckled and jeered. Pathetic.

It was absolute bedlam. Everybody had blood-shot eyes: some from the tear gas, some from the joints that were circulating throughout the stands, some from both. During the match, I felt like Helen Keller at a rave. It was impossible to see anything because seemingly everyone lit flares so a thick cloud of yellow fumes enveloped the stands. Although it was a hot night, the majority of the demons sported black hooded sweatshirts to shield their heads from the flare sparks. Some radicals went shirtless to show off their PAOK tattoos (I saw about twenty PAOK tattoos in our immediate vicinity). It was impossible to hear anything because we were directly next to two maniacs pounding on bass drums, not to mention the 30,000 wailing lunatics surrounding us. It was impossible to smell anything because the tear gas was still percolating in my system.

PAOK won 2-0. After each goal, the number of flares multiplied and the already-booming stadium physically shook; it was electric.

I'm glad I had the experience, but I don't think I'll be returning to the Toumba any time soon. I have respect for their passion and spirit, however there comes a point when the line is crossed. The PAOK monsters probably crossed that original line decades ago and continue to plummet farther into the depths of anarchy; I will not be surprised if I hear that cannibalism emerges as a fad at future Superleague matches. Throwing objects onto the field and maliciously mocking injured players is simply inexcusable. It turns the game from a display of athletic ability and pride into savagery and sadism. I wonder what these monsters outside of the Toumba. Do they lead normal lives or simply inject steroids, organize covert spray-painting missions, and participate in political riots?

Karavomylos Pics

Karavomylos or Heaven?

On the balcony at Niko's house with Niko, Emily, and two of the Bertsimas angels.

With Papa Bertsimas and Niko in one of their olive orchards.

Roasted Lamb

Feasting Imminent

An Eventful Weekend

Kalo Mena (Good Month) to all. At the beginning of each month, Greeks wish each other Kalo Mena. As far as 1st-of-the-months go, May 1st is the most heralded. If it had fallen on a weekday, school would have been cancelled (surprise, surprise). In my experience, May Day doesn't get much love in the States, but in Greece it is yet another reason to celebrate. One of the second year students, Nikos Bertsimas, invited Emily and me to spend the May Day weekend in his village. This blog is full of stories featuring lengthy travel delays which are always worthwhile upon arrival thanks to incomparable Greek hospitality, sumptuous feasts, beautiful scenery, etc. My trip to Karavomylos was no exception, however I'd like to present the weekend visit in a fresh way. I'll give a stream of conscious account of the village trip. Here we go:

Friday

main road closed - three hour bus ride becomes five - ridiculous beach views along road - sitting next to creepy old man in fishing vest (what was in all those pockets?) -he sleeps with eyes open staring at me (or was he just awake and staring at me?) - either way no blinking - arrive in Karavomylos - on the sea / in the mountains - best of both worlds - arrive at Niko's house - kind parents, killer view, feast, three angelic older sisters - am I in heaven? - Niko's dad is the olive King of central Greece / sweet mustache - evening stroll through the village - every house holds a relative - whole village joins our march - promenade along the beach

Saturday

May Day! wake up - pumped full of sweets for breakfast - tour one of Mr. Bertsimas's olive orchards - visit massive cookout at local church in mountains/ source of fresh water for whole village (allegedly was visited by legendary Persian King Xerxes back in the day) - pigs, lambs, goats, being roasted everywhere - Papa Bertsimas shaking hands, kissing babies - move along to family cookout - lamb roasting, 20+ people eating homemade spanikopita (spinach pie), tiropita (cheese pie), and of course eliopita (olive pie), sausage, lamb intestines, meatballs, - sipping homemade wine - what? that was just the appetizer? - lamb finished roasting - lamb tongue, lamb brain ingestion - FEAST - desserts - can barely move but convinced to attempt Greek dancing: quasi-successful - play cards with all of the siblings/cousins/friends - play 5v5 soccer for three hours - discover exotic mystery fruit: mousmoula - go out to neighboring village for small dinner/dessert (yes, dessert again) then sit at beachfront cafe - quite possibly the perfect day

Sunday

sweets for breakfast? po, po, po. if you insist - hang at village bakery - say goodbye to new friends and angelic sisters (Don't cry, sweet angels. Maybe one day I'll be back for good.) - goodbye to parents - presentation of gifts and key to the village, sign autographs, main street renamed Leoforos Edeline (Edeline Avenue) - train home

Only six more weeks of this. Don't cry, Greece. Maybe one day I'll be back for good.