The Sharing of Moments

                He wore his age on his face. Lines, an artist’s cross-hatching, defined his features. White hair, still a full shock of it, if wispier than it had been in his youth, crowned his head. His teeth, always stretched into a smile, had that stereotypical Englishman snaggle. Now into his eighties, Frank was still fit. He carried some paunch, but his devotion to cycling kept him within some measure of fitness. It was this desire to pedal the Continent that had carried him to Heidelberg. It was sheer good fortune that Brad and I had chosen that same time to turn up at the camping ground.

                Hearing other English speakers, Frank called us over to his brand new VW camper van, as proud as a new father. He had spared no expense. And there, safely lashed to the back, was his other pride and joy, his bicycle. An Italian racing bike, it was worth considerably more than my car back home. As so often happens, that chance meeting, and ensuing small talk led to deeper conversation. We invited Frank over to our small camp, and poured out healthy measures of cheap red wine. I lit a cigarillo. We began to speak of many things.

                Frank, now an octogenarian, was eager for the chance to talk of his life, now that the majority of it was in the rear-view mirror. Listening to the tales of such a life whilst sipping Vin du Pays and smoking vanilla cigars may not sound very extraordinary, but that Heidelberg afternoon stands as one of the finest days Brad and I had on that 2003 sojourn. Frank had been in The War. He had enlisted early, and been made into an Able Seaman. He was posted to the HMS Aubretia, and set to prowling the North Atlantic for German U-Boats. It was here that his life grew in status. On a routine mission, the Aubretia was able to use her depth charges to blow U-Boat 110 to the surface, where they strafed her with their guns. The crew poured out onto the hull, surrendering. It was the first time that the Allies had been able to seize an intact enemy submarine.

                Frank began to smile, remembering, as he should have, for the War turned on that day. The Captain of the U-Boat was a creature of Social Nationalism, a political beast, and not one to observe the naval code of war. After the surrender, he took up one of the sub’s own depth charges, and dove into the sea, intent on his own immolation and the destruction of the Aubretia. The First Officer, himself a real Navy man, one of Rayder’s, not one of Hitler’s, took his surrender and that of his crew far more seriously, and drew his own side arm, shooting his Captain as he swam for the British ship. Frank saw it all unfold, being one of the rowers in the life boat, charged with taking men from the crippled vessel. Officially, the Captain was recorded as drowned in the history texts. Unofficially some men knew better.

The capture of that intact U-Boat, and its intact Enigma Code machine, led to the Allies breaking the infamous Enigma Code, giving them a distinct advantage over the Nazi’s for the duration of the war. And Frank had been one of the men who helped seize it. That, in and of itself, was something special to listen to, but Frank was far from finished. He went back to his camper and returned with a bottle of brandy, all his talking being thirsty work.

Following the Nazi surrender, he was sent to the Pacific theatre. Montbatton, the hapless British strategist, had the brilliant notion to take Atlantic sailors and turn them into Pacific fliers. And so, Frank became a pilot, and flew against the Japanese to close out his carrier as a soldier.

At his mention of Montbatton, he must have seen my face twist. “You know about Montbatton?” he asked. I nodded in the affirmative. “He planned the Dieppe Raid, where my Grandfather fought.” Ernie Ludkin had been a Riley, and the wounds he suffered that day, the scars, they haunted him for the rest of his life, in the form of drinking and flashbacks. You don’t easily forget seeing your friends head explode as it meets a German bullet. Nor do you forget using that same corpse as cover so that your own head might remain attached.

“He was the shame of our nation, you know,” Frank said gently. “Everyone knew he was the one who botched the Raid. I met a lot of Canadian soldiers. They were Lions. Fierce, proud, toughest buggers the Empire had in the fight. They were Lions alright. But they were led by a donkey.” And then a strange thing happened. Frank apologized to me. I was touched deeply, although I had never met my Grandfather, nor had I ever held the people of Britain accountable for the debacle that Dieppe was.

“Did he ever learn to like German’s again?” Frank wanted to know. “I had a hell of a time myself.” It was an odd thing to say, sitting as we were by the banks of a German river, in a German university town, the medieval Schloss staring down at us from its hilltop perch. “But then, I came to Europe for a ceremony on Armistice Day, and I met a man who had fought on the other side. And I liked him. So I let go of the hate I had held inside for so long.”

We continued to share liquor and stories. Places we had been. Experiences we had had. We stayed up and spoke long into the night. The next day, Frank was gone early, eager to travel on and ride his Italian bike down other Continental laneways. Our paths never did cross again. And yet we had shared a time that was unique, and special. Which is what travel is all about. That is the good life, that sharing of moments.  

Midnight Suns, and Southbound Runs

                It may very well be a societal thing. Or perhaps it is just a question of practicality. We make better note of sunsets than of sunrises. Even a man like myself, who is proudly more of a morning person, I can recall more remarkable ends to the day than beginnings. It makes sense – we can sit around with friends, enjoying a bottle of wine or a beer. We can reflect on the events of the day, rather than be focussed on what is yet to come, what we have yet to do, what we have planned.

                It is perhaps this rarity of appreciation that lends weight to those dawns that we do remember; they stand out with a clarity of mind. Two such perfect daybreaks stand above all others to me: an arctic sun at midnight, and a Floridian beach looking East over the Atlantic.

                Brad and I had travelled north out of Lillehammer on the train, taking it as far as we could, to the end of the rail line in Bodo, Norway. Bodo, the railhead and seaport above the Arctic Circle, was not a picturesque town, at least not in terms of its architecture. The Nazi’s had laid waste to it when they had withdrawn from Norway during the War. Its beauty lay in its natural surroundings. Jagged fjords wended their way into icy mountain fastness’s off in the distance. The Gulf Stream kissed its shores, so that the early June air was temperate. The usual backpacker chores awaited us at the campground: laundry, setting up camp, cooking. We explored the seaside near our tent, the warm air almost inducing us to swim. Later, in what should have been the dark of night, we decided that we should head out of town, the better to see the sun as it sunk towards midnight. We wandered north, on an unused roadway, heading for a rocky bluff, behind which we knew waited the sun. A tunnel hacked into the rock shone with a golden halo of light, encouraging us onwards. We passed through it, into an abandoned quarry. And there it was, the sun, still riding in the sky despite the lateness of the hour. It glinted on the ocean, slowly sinking behind a rocky spire, which jutted up out of the sea like a single boney finger.

                Midnight was fast approaching, and we hurried to climb higher up the rock face we had just passed under. The light faded, causing the sky to brighten with colours. Soft orange and pale mauve settled over the see able world. Far up the coast, north into myth, the mountains ran, coloured like a Viking tale of Asgaard. The sun disappeared behind that frozen finger of granite that rode out at sea, but it never did dip below the horizon line. The gloaming did not fade away into night, but rather began to grow, as day returned immediately, the brief moment of haunting Nordic twilight not made to last beyond the instant that it was born. We sat amongst the rocks of the quarry, watching, as daybreak rode seamlessly into the sky. When we finally did return to our camp, it was well past 3 am, but neither Brad nor I could sleep. It was much too bright. That and the fact that we had witnessed something remarkable kept us awake. One day had become another, and darkness had not fallen.

                I am not much of a surfer, but I gave it a good try. With a van full of friends, I toured the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. We fuelled ourselves on canned chili and Miller High Life beer. It was a week-long escapade of sun, surf, firelight, and acoustic guitar.  We had decided that we should make time out of Myrtle Beach, and get down to Florida, where the waves were known to be better. And so we drove all through the night, heading for Cocoa Beach. I got stuck with the graveyard shift behind the wheel, able to stay awake by keeping the tunes blasting, and the Eddie Murphy Raw DVD on repeat.

                This particular beach has a river that flows into it, creating a very deep “hole” in the seabed, where the river water gouges out the sea floor as the two bodies of water meet. This merger of tide and river flow is good for waves. It is also good for fish, looking for food. Which means, it is good for sharks. It is called the Monster Hole, both in reference to its size, and its inhabitants. Having driven all night, we pulled up behind the dunes just as the sun was beginning to peek out from below the horizon. We sat in the sand, and watched as that tiny first gleaming of light grew into an angry fiery ball. Blood red light spilled over the ocean. And there, in the Hole, we could see the fins circling, as the sharks fed. Literally dozens of them, gliding along, just beneath the surface. That surface was calm, but below there was a piscine bloodbath. Sharks are terrifying, just as they are beautiful. There is a reason that Mexican fishermen call them “La Bonita” (the Beautiful), showing them respect and fear. We sat still, and watched them feed, the dawn growing all around us. No one stated the obvious, that surfing the Hole scared us all to death. Later that same day, as we sat on our boards, bobbing out in the midst of the Hole, we tried not to remember those sinuous gliding fins. It is, as always, a fine line with the fear and the thrill of the ocean. Put the danger out of your mind, and focus on the coming wave. It is only later that you can allow yourself to remember. Only now, after the deed has been done, you can remember not only the fear, but the beauty of the scene as well, that swell of the sky on the waves, and the shadows that fed beneath them.

                Those two dawns were remarkable, and not to be forgotten in the way that we forget so many sunsets. It is, as I said, the rarity of witnessing such perfect moments that allows them to stay with us.

Times Like These

                The years that I chose to go abroad were interesting times. In May of 2003, the United States was busily engaged militarily on the Roof of the World, all the while heartily rattling their sabres to let more blood on the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates. Using poisoned language, and outright lies, they eventually unleashed the hounds of war in the ancient lands of Sumer, Ur, and Babylon. In August 2006, Israel was joyfully indulging its own blood thirsty demons, levelling entire city blocks with their fighter bombers in the Lebanese capital of Beirut, and obliterating the southern city of Sidon. The murderers of men, women and children were praised for their heroism, for pressing a button that literally rained death down upon the innocent from 20,000 feet, whilst those that opposed the carnage with nothing more than small arms, rocks, and passion were condemned as cowards and terrorists.

                In short, the world read like a Matthew Arnold poem, a place in which there was neither joy, nor hope, nor relief from pain. And I was abroad, not safe at home; I was able to witness a more international response to the times, and to those crimes. Despite the child-like wonder of being in foreign lands, living out a long held dream, I was at times apprehensive, nervous, and cynical about the world into which I was venturing into. I need not to have been. The world, as it so often does, in times like these, or in times long past, was able to show me that while ignorant armies may clash at night, the spirit of Humanity can still overcome.

                In the Great War, it fell to Sir Winston Churchill, as yet the Lord of the Admiralty, to smash through the Turkish defenses along the Dardanelles, and lay open the way to bombard and fire bomb the Celestial Porte; this would force the Turks into the uncomfortable position of either surrendering, or watching the capital of Istanbul burn. Churchill, in the manner of the wealthy military elite, chose not to pound the peninsula of Gallipoli with his battle ship’s long guns, but rather to land men, and storm over the Turkish trenches, Aussies’ and Kiwi’s being apparently of less worth than shells. It was not an easy fight, as Mustafa Kemal (later Atatürk, Father of the modern Turkish nation) and the Turks were not willing to give an inch, and leave their capital exposed. The Mehmets fought the Johnnies to a standstill, their trenches mere metres apart in places.

                One of the Australian officers, a Lieutenant Casey, recalled later that after a bitter Anzac (Australia and New Zealand Army Corp) offensive, which the Turks repelled, one wounded Johnny lay in the hell of No-Man’s Land. He was too wounded to make his way back to his own lines, and so lay screaming in the mud, soaked in his own terror. One unknown Turkish soldier, after listening to the tortured cries, sprang into action, and went over the top himself, daring the bullets from all sides. He made it to the wounded man, and hoisted him up onto his shoulders. He did not turn and carry the man back to the safety of his own trench, but rather, stumbled forward, towards the lines of his enemy. The Anzacs looked on in wonder. Their own officers shouted for them to shoot, and so they did, aiming high into the air, realising that this man, their enemy, was risking his own life to save the life of their comrade. After he had delivered the wounded man to his compatriots, the Allied soldiers allowed him to return to his own lines undamaged, shooting high and wide yet again. It was an act of the utmost compassion, an act that showed how humanity can persevere, in even the worst of circumstances. Mustafa Kemal, after becoming the first President of the Turkish Republic, returned to the battlefield of Gallipoli, and ordered a statue built in commemoration of that act of compassion, the Mehmet carrying the wounded Johnny in his arms; it has forever enshrined those virtues to which all governments claim to espouse, but which so few actually achieve. It is a beautiful sight, a golden image quietly sitting amongst the pines and the grave stones.

                Other, less dramatic symbols of resistance to the violence that marks our race were present. In 2003, people across the UK protested their involvement in the upcoming war in Iraq. Placards were seen sarcastically congratulating their government for “Delivering Democracy”, the words superimposed over the image of a falling bomb. In Italy, rainbow coloured banners graced thousands of balconies, and roof tiles were repainted to beg the world for “Pace” (peace). The French bravely stood up to the United States in the UN, and I could see how proud it made them in the streets, to not be included in the infamous “Coalition of the Willing”.

                In 2006, Turkey faced another Kurdish uprising, and a bomb rang out in the Marmaris night, obliterating a section of downtown sidewalk. In the face of harsh governmental reprisals, the Kurdish independence movement had decided that the best way to affect change was to assault Turkey’s most important and profitable industry, that of tourism. The situation was tense, and the presence of machine gun touting policemen did little to reassure me. And yet, one night I sipped tea outside of the Aya Sofia, served to me by a soft spoken, insightful Kurd who hailed from Diyarbakir, carrying a canister of the scalding liquid on his back. He came to Istanbul every summer, he told me. There was no work in his home, which was the centre of the independence movement. The Turkish Army had left Diyarbakir a desolated place in the 1990’s, and it had yet to recover. And so he sold tea to Westerners like myself, making what must have been a pittance, but enough that he had money to send home to his wife and young children, who lived without their father for half of the year. What a life to lead, how lonely he must have been. But he did not complain to me about that. Instead he complained about the bomb, which was then only 2 week old news, and how it would only have a negative effect on everyone, be they Turk, or be they Kurd. Violence, the tea merchant assured me, was not the way to solve any issue. Turk and Kurd had to learn to live together in harmony, and joint prosperity. His outlook was more warming than the chai he sold.

                And so, in times like these, or in times like those, there have been violent deeds, and bitter lies in great abundance, but there have also been shining rays of light; soft candles held up by sometimes shaking hands to stave off the encroaching dark. If all of us were only so brave as to light a candle of our own, we would never need to curse that darkness; it would already be outshone.

The Summer-Toothed Rogue

We never did see a knife. We didn’t have to, the point was moot. As Ali had already helpfully pointed out, he knew where we were staying, and he could easily come back at his leisure.

            Brad and I had made an error in calculation, or maybe more accurately, and error in translation. We were young, bold, and at this point feeling rather foolish (and by foolish I mean knee quakingly afraid). After two and a half months on the road, we had felt that we were now seasoned enough as travellers to be able to take on any environment, any scenario. This was an error in belief that could now be proving to be costly. Tangiers, as we were discovering, was not a city to allow such errors to go unrequited.

            The initial problem lay with language. I am not referring to our lack of French, or Arabic, both of which would have served us well in the African nation of Morocco, but rather with the relative ambiguity of English; specifically in the way it was used, the phrases that were employed in our trusted guide book.

            The text in question had proven to be a valuable tool for the two of us, providing us with useful intelligence time and time again; from where to eat to where to be wary of swindlers or aggressive junkies. Brad and I had conquered several such European centres with little difficulty, taking in the sights and dodging the riff raff with relative ease. And so, when the guide book used the same toned down language that had described the dangers of Amsterdam to describe this North African port, we scoffed at their implications. We had already seen some dodgy spots, and had excelled in our survival. Surely the non-governmental guides were not a serious threat, not like the smack hungry junkies of the Netherlands.

            The very plan to visit Africa was a spur of the moment, seat of our pants sort of decision. We had been in Spain, and were well ahead of our loose schedule. With a week in hand, Brad and I dreamed, quite romantically, of Sirocco winds and the towering dunes of Merzouga at the Gates of the Sahara. A day later, and the two of us were crossing between the Pillars of Heracles, travelling from Iberia to the northern most reach of the Dark Continent on a ferry laden with people and merchandise.

            Clearing customs was a breeze. It was 2003, and the tourism industry was proving to be a fickle bitch all across the Arab world in the wake of 9/11. An elderly, stately looking man in loose white clothing approached us, and asked if we required his services. He was an official government guide, paid by the tourist board of Morocco. He knew the city intimately, and was adept at keeping the grifters at bay, he assured us most heartily. The issue, for two budget travellers like ourselves, was his price tag, which ran upwards of thirty odd euros. Not a lot of money, to be sure, but it was more than either of us wished to spend on a service we did not really think we needed. After all, had we not done this before, time and time again, in city after city? We felt we could handle ourselves.

            The refined statesman eyed us dubiously, no doubt wondering if we would be nothing more than a news headline on the morrow, but our answer was firm, and we stepped through the gates of the port, past the machine gunned guards and into Africa proper, unfettered and confident. Not ten yards into this exotic new world a lean shadow detached itself from the wall and strode over to us. The man smiled easily, showing us a mouthful of crooked or missing teeth. Speaking remarkably good English, this summer toothed rogue assured us that he was eager to assist us in any way that he could. We declined the offer of help, and strode on into the Medina of the city, in search of our hotel.

            Our smiling shadow, who named himself Ali, followed doggedly, and talked quickly to us. He knew the hotel we were looking for, he would take us there; it was his pleasure and duty as both a Moroccan and a Muslim to assist us and shower us with hospitality. The closed, twisting, tightly confined and massively confusing jumble of buildings became a veritable rabbit’s warren of streets and souks. We were soon lost and disorientated, moving in circles, and feeling uneasy. Ali, who had been following gamely, took the lead and had us at the door of the hotel we had been seeking in moments. We thanked the man profusely for his aid. Again, he flashed his missing teeth, and told us we owed him fifty euros. We hesitated.

            Brad, who was carrying our combined monies from the past five days, had a healthy wad of colourful European bills in his trouser pocket. In the other, he had fifteen euros for quick usage. He did not want to reach into either. Ali, sensing this reluctance, grew stony, the ever present grin disappearing in a thunderous scowl. “I know where you stay. I can come back with knife later,” he informed us coldly. Several other native Moroccans strode on by, but none of them paid us or our predicament any mind; why would they care if some silly Euro-trash prats had their pockets lightened? I looked over to Brad helplessly, my eyes saying loudly “Do not let him know about the wad of cash, or he will take it all.” Brad, not being an idiot, reached into the other pocket and withdrew the fifteen euros, telling Ali this was all we had on us.

            Ali grumbled, but he took the money. It would not do to take this hold-up too far, and he did not seem displeased with his haul. The friendly, disarming smile had returned. We were dazed, and sought the shelter of the hotel as soon as we were able. So shocked were we that we failed to notice the stunningly beautiful foyer, with its tile worked fountain and blossoming palm fronds. We made for our room post-haste.

            We now knew just how far from our own culture and homes we were. It would seem that the descriptor “unpleasant” in a guide book has markedly different meanings depending on the nature of the development in the city in question, or so it now seemed to us at the time, freshly robbed as we were. When we at last re-emerged into the sunlit souk, we feared that Ali would spring out upon us at any time, but we did not see him again until much later, and then only by chance.

            Things that had had the potential to wow us hours before now seemed seedy and unwholesome. The marketplace in the Medina teemed with life and commerce, but we ignored it, despite many impassioned “My friends, for you, good price, special price.” Faces set, we stormed past the stalls, determined not to give any other swindler an inch or a potential intro. Food vendors filled the air with the smells of roasting meat, but all I could now see were the gutters full of intestines, melon rinds and other assorted offal. The romance of North Africa had faded, and all I could see were the negatives.

            That night, the Medina teemed with life. Music, laughter and good cheer filled the air. Brad and I listened from our room, too intimidated to face the revelry of the crowd. To this day, I rue that fear, as we lost the chance to experience something foreign to us, and wonderful.

            We never did see Merzouga, nor the Gates of the Sahara. We did see Ali, leaning on the wall of the port, waiting for a mark, as we made to board a ship that would take us back to Spain and a civilization we knew far better than this dusty, desperate outpost, this last stop on the refugee trail to Europe. We were slinking away, our tails tucked between our legs like a pair of cuffed curs. We had simply not been ready for the wonders and dangers of the Medina, so closed, so alive, so foreign, and so poor.

            Years removed, I do not begrudge Ali his pay, nor the Medina its exotic lifeblood. They were as they should have been, raw, impoverished, and smiling. It is not lost on me that a man risked losing his hand to take fifteen euros from a pair of strangers. Desperation has no, and needs no better definition than that. Brad and I had simply been too fresh faced and naïve to be able to face a city as unfettered as Tangiers. I long for the opportunity to have another crack at this ragged gem, ready this time to take Ali’s smiling whack on the chin, and smile back myself.

Marble Orchards

                My Grandfather had an interesting expression regarding cemeteries; he called them ‘Marble Orchards’.  It was an apt comparison. Cemeteries evoke scenes of rural, pastoral tranquility. Fields of manicured green punctuated not by sheaves of wheat nor laden fruit trees, but rather rows of cold marble and etched stone. Peaceful, serene, calm, and visually appealing, the War Cemeteries of Europe coax you into a state of ease, making it possible to forget that on the very ground that those calm orchards occupy, there was a terrible harvest. Human beings make a very bitter crop.

                Vimy Ridge is an astonishing place. It is sovereign Canadian soil, a national park, given to our nation as thanks for the successful capture of the German line. The French and the British had tried in vain for several years to break the German hold in Arras, France, without success. It took the Canadian Corps three days of systematic shelling, followed by infantry charges, from April 9-12 1917, before the Allies held the high ground at last. It was the first ever all Canadian action in our country’s history. Many believe that Canada as a nation was born in the blood and screaming of that ridge. That could very well be, but it was a costly endeavour. One just has to stroll about the grounds. Row upon row of plain unadorned stones mark the final resting places of many. Some of the fallen were known and identifiable. Others were not, being little more than mangled heaps of flesh, graves marked simply “Known unto God”. The ages range from 15 on up. It is sobering. There is no wonder why, on the stunning monument, the fragile figure of “Canada” stands weeping between the columns, shedding tears for her sons stolen from her. 3,598 men from the Canadian Corps died during those three days. The number of German dead was never recorded, but the moving wall of shells would have taken a bloody toll.

                Brad and I had no direct connection to the battlefield. My Great Grandfather was taken prisoner at Passchendaele, and took no part in the victory of April 12^th. Regardless, I felt it was appropriate to uncork a bottle of Vin de Pays, pour a dollop for myself, for Brad, and feed the rest to the soil, homage to the fallen of both sides.

                As we threaded our way across the North of France, the scars of both wars were evident; French beaches sit under the ominous glare of aging pill boxes and machine gun nests. Dieppe held special significance for me. My paternal grandfather was a member of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry, and on August 19^th, 1942, he made landfall on the beach, charging into a hail of German bullets with his gun and radio. Shot in the face, he took refuge under the body of his best friend, who had been less lucky. He lay there all day, taking fire, making radio calls back to command, staying alive. The Germans, safe on the cliff tops, rained death down onto the beach. He watched as the Spitfires came screaming in, the pilots risking their own lives to provide what scant covering fire they could to the desperate and embattled troops on the ground. He watched men die around him. He watched as the rescue boats hove into view, signalling the end of the poorly planned operation. He ran, on a leg filled with shrapnel, into the surf. Unable to swim, he was hauled by other brave and desperate men into one of the boats, only to have to abandon ship moments later when a dive-bombing Stuka sank it. Again, other men risked their lives to drag him through the water into another rescue craft, and safety. He made it, at long last, bloodied and broken, and would carry the scars of that day forward, suffering flashbacks and alcoholism until he died at 52 years of age.

                The cemetery at Dieppe sits quietly away from the bustle of the village, near to the sea. Less grand than Vimy, it is still a place of quiet reflection. Brad and I signed the log book provided, and I read the other inscriptions. Many others had come there in search of a familial connection. Not all men were as fortunate as Ernest Ludkin; of the 5,000 Canadians who landed that day, 3,367 were casualties. I cried quietly, smelling the crisp clean air off the English Channel, as I thought of what my Grandfather had endured that day. Although I had never met the man, I was close to him at that moment. I once again watered the soil with red wine, a tribute to the fallen on both sides of the line.

                Not all war cemeteries are located in the north of France, however, and at the bequest of my maternal Grandfather, I went in search of a Marble Orchard in the Italian heartland. Cesena was a small Italian city taken by the Canadians as they marched north, driving the Germans ahead of them. My Papa was a young man of 16, and was not able to enlist, but his best friend, Harley Duff, was 18, and went off to fight for King and country. This farm boy from Binbrook never came home. After the battle he lay in a field, recovering. A stray shell whistled into the air, snuffing out his young life. My Grandfather asked me to find his friend, and so I did, closing a circle that had lain open and heavy on my grandfather’s mind for 60 years. I was able to say “goodbye” to Harley from Red, helping to heal a very old wound.

                And so, the Marble Orchards sit, allowing us to reflect upon the folly and tragedy of the Human experience. So many bitter harvests, so many poisoned fruits; and lessons never really learned.

Santorini Sunsets

                You never forget that first sunset. It is magnificent, all encompassing. The entire sky is lit up in a veritable symphony of colours. You learn that colour has a voice, that it can speak to you, sing with silent poetry for the eyes. Were you to live forever on into old age and dotard-hood, you could recall the absolute glory of that single moment in time. It is as if the world had slowed in its ceaseless revolutions to allow you to appreciate the wonder of this magnificence.

            Having taken the ferry from Piraeus, one can stop in to call at a variety of Grecian Isles, all steeped in history and beauty, from Paros, to Naxos, to Mykonos. We had settled on the miniscule dot of Ios, spending many sun-soaked days and alcohol drenched nights, times of pure, wild hedonism. The vibe that pulsates through the air on that tiny, desertous isle is without compare. What moments we did have, glorying in our wild freedom … but after a few days, your mind, if not your liver, tells you that it is time to go. Other worlds await. Boarding the afternoon catamaran to Santorini, you venture out, on to a new port of call.

            As the ship sails into the Caldera, you really do not know what to think. Here we were, clearly, visibly, sailing into the mouth of a still active volcano; this volcano is a sort of ground zero, the spot of the world’s second largest eruption, destroyer of the great Atlantian civilization (if the current work of scholars is indeed correct). It is impossible not to be aware of this, the knowledge burning into your mind as you wonder “will it blow again?” Ripping your eyes away from the sulphuric clouds that still belch out of the rocks heaped in the centre of the volcanic maw, you witness the wonder that is Santorini. Cliffs, thousands of feet high, and clinging to them, houses, shops, pooled terraces, all built on the very precipice. These are the postcard perfect images we have seen scattered about Greece in tourist shops. It is a wonder, a testament to the genius of Man. As the ferry docks, we sit back and bask in the view.

            As the port thrusters engage, the ship rotates, and this view is replaced by an image of Nature’s wonder. The sun, sinking to rest in the West, has lit a fire in the sky; it has become a cauldron of fiery tones, angry and turbulent, a million shades of red and orange which dominate the horizon, as far as the cliffs will allow you to see in either direction.

Sadly, it is time for us to depart the vessel – they do have a schedule to keep, and must push on for Crete, regardless of this unfolding scene in the sky. Brad and I run madly down the stairs and across the gangway, eager not to miss a minute of this spectacle. And there, on the pier, backpacks slung on our backs, leaning forward on a rough concrete embrasure, time ceases to have meaning. The sun has become a disk of molten lava, as red a blood, where it first kisses the Aegean. Between us and this heavenly fire there is nothing but a sea a dark as wine, and a ship, alone, sails raised, moving West into the display. My brain takes a photo for itself. This is a scene perfect in time. The sky directly overhead is slate grey, its lead contrasting mightily with the streamers of colour that are only now beginning to fade.

The ship is distant now, flying west, away from the encroaching night. The sun, with one last gasp of life, dips below the horizon, sinking into that timeless sea. I am surprised to find that my eyes have misted, that I have been so moved, perhaps even changed by the scene I have witnessed. The colours die, fading, to be replaced by the growing leaden sky. A last streak of yellow, pastel and pure, fights on valiantly, but at last gives in to the coming darkness. With its departure, time returns to us with a vengeance, and we can hear the pension owners hawking their rooms, smell the petrol fumes of the busses which cart people up the switch-backed road into town. Sighing, I turn my back on the sea and walk towards the din. It is time to get a room.  

Swimming With Sharks

                “Most shark attacks occur within the first three feet of water, you know,” Jeremy said, warily eyeing the moon-stained sea. Waves lapped up the sandy beach, nearly moistening the jumbled pile of hastily shed pink sheets that had, until short moments before, acted as togas.

            I whirled, incredulous, my eyes shocked away from the naked flesh of the five female swimmers who had drunkenly agreed to join the three of us men in this soiree by the seaside. “What?” I blurted stupidly, knowing as I said it, I should not have encouraged an encore. My brother, of course, was only too eager to oblige me, and too oblivious to the obvious fact that his words might have a cooling effect on the loins of these women, loins which were fuelled at that moment by the fiery burning of ouzo, impacting the potential outcome of this exciting, fleshy adventure.

            “Most shark attacks, on humans anyway, occur in the first three feet of water.” I made desperate shushing motions with my hands, already up to my navel in the wine dark waters of the Ionian Sea. Brad, a few metres away, also looked back at Jeremy in annoyance, off balance, as the nymph-like form he had been about to embrace took a quick step back towards the apparent safety of the sand. The other four female bathers also began to edge away from the waves, which to me still seemed to be beckoning us forward into its warm embrace. Indeed, the water had never felt finer, the salty tang of it on my tongue. One of the girls, naked in the moon foam, shivered slightly, before announcing in her southern drawl that she was feeling chilled. The others were quick to agree.

            Desperate, I pointed out that the water was incredibly warm, and that if they would but join us in the surf (well, Brad and I, as Jeremy still clung to the ankle deep water at the edge of the strand), we would be sure to shake off the chill that hung in the clear August air. “No, no,” said the now goose-pimpled female, recognizing that the moment had been lost, the mood of youthful, sexual exuberance over, “I feel like turning in. It has been a long and crazy night. Thanks guys, this was fun.” Her friends agreed with this new assessment, and I could only watch helplessly as they made their retreat from the ocean side, bodies shining white in the pale light. Within moments, they had re-donned their togas, and bid us gentlemen a fond adieu, giggling at what could have been.

            We were not nearly so merry. “You idiot,” I said.

 Jeremy looked back at me defensively. “What?” he asked. “It is true, most attacks do happen in water close to shore. I hate swimming at night, freaks me out.”

“It doesn’t matter if it is true! Now was not the time to bring it up. Tomorrow over a breakfast in their rooms would have been better,” I shot back. I looked to Brad for support, but he was staring off up the beach, in the direction that the girls had gone off in. No doubt he was re-living the sway of hips, the sight of scandalously unveiled torsos, and then their tragic disappearance. I shook my head.

Jer perked up, trying to be helpful. “None of them were very good looking anyway,” he offered by way of compromise.

“It doesn’t matter. Jer, let me explain this to you. We are on Corfu, in Agios Gordios, at the Pink Palace. We went to its most epic weekly event, the Toga Party, and were about to cap that experience off with a naked swim in the sea with five women. And now? A shark attack has bitten off my libido …” I moved to dress, as did the others. We had no desire to swim naked with each other, after all. The climb back up the hill to our room was long indeed; long, and far lonelier than it should have been. Those god-damned sharks…

The Muezzin's Call

                The debarkation from the Greek vessel was painless, despite the tension between these two neighbouring states. The billions of injected tourist dollars seem to make cooperation easier, but that of course is the cynic in me. Perhaps they are finally setting aside their centuries of old hatreds, seeing a better future as allies and friends. I suppose it is a combination of the two. The crossing from Rhodes to Marmaris had been quick and relatively wave free, thankfully. Not all late summer voyages on the Aegean are so still. The thought of the crossing from Crete to Rhodes, the massive ferry pitching and heaving, the grey sea roiling angrily, still makes me queasy.

            After being waved through customs (being of European descent still has its advantages it seems, as we pass by a group of swarthier people being held by the border guards for more involved questioning) by a bored looking man who did not even make an attempt to look at our proffered passports, we were set free on Asian soil.  The dry heat of the Mediterranean afternoon envelops us, but after a month on the meandering by-ways of Greece, it has grown on us.

            Marmaris, one of Turkey’s busiest ports, and a major hub for its tourist trade, is subdued and quiet. Not many people can be seen on the streets, and those that are out move about in a rush, bent on the task at hand. No ideal milling, lazy meandering, nor aimless wandering; as if to emphasize the stillness, even the side walk hawkers are silent, the rug hustlers and shop keepers respectfully distant. A bombing can do that to a city; steal its vibrancy, its personality, render it a shocked and frightened shell of itself.

            Less than a week ago, the group calling itself the “Kurdish Freedom Falcons” set off a bomb on a downtown sidewalk, hoping to hurt Turkey economically by targeting tourists. It is a thirteen billion dollar industry annually, and so the “Falcons” feel that they are therefore justified to kill non-Turks in an effort to scare us all away, driving us and our money to other destinations. Judging by the number of large pleasure craft still dotting the harbour, this endeavour was in vain. The town may be subdued, but it is far from being broken.

            Nevertheless, it is time to move forward, ever on towards new things and experiences that can ignite a fire in the mind. It is not that we do not like the look of Marmaris, nor are we afraid of death at the hands of a coward dressed in the guise of a Falcon. It is something more practical – Marmaris is expensive, and we are poor. So, we found ourselves arriving in the late afternoon in Bodrum, further up the coast, after taking the bus.

            Bodrum is not exactly a niggard’s paradise, but it is a little less jet-set than its bigger brother to the south. The yachts still power into the harbour with regularity, but the town caters to the backpacking crowd as well. Accommodation ranges suitably as a result, from 4 star resorts to small, sweltering, dorm roomed Pensions. One can guess where my brother and I ended up staying. Oddly enough, you can and do grow used to the snoring of complete strangers who sleep a few feet from your own head. The stagnant air is harder to take, especially on those still nights when the breeze dies, and the balcony windows open onto a bevy of chain-smoking Britons who are doing their damnedest to become cancer patient statistics.

            A cursory examination of the town reveals many prior-to unknowns: This was Halicarnassus, and at various times had played host to many of history’s significant moments; the birth of Herodotus, the Father of History, the location of King Mausolus’ grand final resting place, the Mausoleum (one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World), and the final Asiatic holding of the Crusader order, the Hospitalliers, in their Castle of Saint Peter, before the Turks drove the warrior monks out for good. Even for a lover of history, it is almost too much; almost, but not quite. And so, we set out to, and succeed, in losing ourselves to the cobbled streets, the faded ruins, and the soaring castle ramparts. Some of the images stay with us; some inevitably are lost, despite our best intentions. The sheer size and scope of the Mausoleum still has the capacity to surprise me, the brilliance and vanity of a king in life and in death. Juxtaposed to the phenomenal ziggurat, are the miniscule prison cells in the Castle of Saint Peter, designed to neither allow a man to sit upright, nor lie down fully extended, leading inevitably to a manic, desperate scrawling on the wall in Latin, that reads horribly “Inde Deus Abest” – “Where God Does Not Exist”. The various implements of torture that are displayed in this now grim museum lend truth to that sentiment.

            Settling in to a quay side eatery, we decide to treat ourselves; local fare, and local wine. The food is served to us upon a raki soaked platter, wreathed in alcohol fuelled blue flames. Within the fire rest sealed amphorae, filled with hearty stew. The waiter uses a hammer to smash off the lids to these “Ottoman Hotpots”, revealing the slow cooked deliciousness within. The wine, from nearby Pamukale, is smoky, dry, and very fine. Of course, the food, and the moonrise over the waves adds to our enjoyment of this juice of the grape, but such is always the case. Wine, even fine wine, is one part taste, two parts atmosphere.

            And there, as my brother and I sip our wine, watch the moon come up over the yacht speckled harbour, nibble our food, careful to avoid any stray shard of terra cotta, we hear it, that lyrical call to prayer. All over the city, minarets ring out with the Muezzins’ call, entreating the faithful to come to mosque and exalt in the Lord. It is a sound of great beauty, great romance, and great mystery. The call is something tangible that smacks ever of the East, transporting even a faithless heathen to the very brink of wonder. On this night, in this place, it is music.

            A tribal thrumming can be heard, growing louder, fighting with the Muezzin for dominance of the night. The rave-like dancehall beats draw nearer and nearer, raw and powerful, until, just as the Muezzins call is reaching a mighty zenith, the source heaves into view: a flat bedded lorry, with massive speakers, filling the night with a different more modern song. A pole is erected in the centre of the truck bed, and scantily clad women gyrate about it, shaking their hips like belly dancers, but dressing like street walkers. A banner proclaims that this truck and these women are in the service of a certain local club, where one can dance, drink, and carouse until the wee hours. Indeed, the way that the women move, the truck as an advertisement seems to be promising a great deal more. The Muezzin promises delights in heaven, the women, delights in the now.

            The one eye of Turkey is looking West, to Europe and beyond, the other looks East to a proud Muslim past, and the two of us, Jeremy and I, are caught in the middle, suspended between them both.

Ode To A Grecian John

                Grecian toilets are an odd joy. A surprise waiting to be discovered. You just never know what you will find when you walk into one. They are something that simply must be experienced. Some, located in pristine new buildings, like the bus terminal in Igoumenitsa, are horrors. Although new and modern, urine soaks the walls, the seat, even the top of the tank at the back of the unit. Rogue tatters of paper scatter the floor, or stick moistly to the wall. One must step daintily to avoid slippage. And try not to let any part of the seat make contact with your nether bits.

                Most toilets have ancient plumbing, which is to be expected in such an ancient land, making it impossible to flush toilet paper. The pipes are simply not made to handle that sort of work load. There is a small bin, located to the side, for your convenience in disposing of the used paper. There will be the odd camping ground or hotel that has new plumbing, and will allow you to flush all of your waste tidily away. Such a washroom, however, will invariably be without some other commodity, like soap, and you will see people answer the call of nature, and walk away without any hint of a hygienic washing up.

                The most fabled, and feared, water closet in the Mediterranean world, however, is the Turkish Toilet. Common all over the near east, North Africa, and southern Europe, it is a toilet system that boasts of being the only ergonomically correct toilet in the world. This may well be true, but to the traveller who is familiar with the Western toilet of John Crapper fame, it is a daunting experience. There is no pedestal, no seat, no tank. There is merely a porcelain basin set into the floor, with two foot rests. One must squat down on ones haunches, and aim for the hole in the middle of the basin. You resemble a back catcher signalling the pitcher. It can make for a difficult evacuation. Pants can (and perhaps should) be removed utterly to avoid accidental soiling. This keeps your limited wardrobe pristine, but is time consuming. After a prolonged squat, one may have difficulty with ones knees, which can lock up in rather short order, making it necessary to grasp the water pipe behind you for support. The fear of falling over is also very real. Standing becomes difficult the longer the aching squat is enforced. Ergonomically correct, but these facilities exact a toll, a price to be paid in diminished comforts for that posture correction.

                None of this should act as a deterrent. Indeed, no life is complete if one has never graced a foreign water closet. But be prepared. No traveller worth his salt should be without their own roll of paper, a handy bar of soap, ointment for aching knees, and perhaps a clean pair of socks.

Forlorn and Melancholy

                It is an amazing thing; to sit in the very place foretold by Saint John the Divine as the exact site of the Apocalypse: The Throne of Satan, the high alter in the Red Basilica, in what is now Bergama, Turkey, but what once was Pergamum, the jewel of Asia. Bergama is not at all an imposing city, quite the contrary. It is bustling, yet not hectic, thriving, but never ostentatious. The people are friendly, the street clean. It is not the sort of place one would imagine the beginning of the end. It is a good thing that I do not agree with Saint John, or I might have been filled with fear or loathing. Even in John’s day, the choice of Pergamum is an odd one, given that the Asclepion, the famed local hospital, was the stomping grounds of Galen, the Father of Western Medicine. He performed medical miracles, from brain trepanning to cataract surgery circa 210 BCE. The city state itself was home to the ancient world’s second largest library, a repository of knowledge and learning. In short, not the sort of city where one might imagine the Great Evil rising up to destroy every last vestige of the world we know.

                Whilst sitting on the large uneven boulder that is Satan’s Throne, I did not feel any quaver of evil. Is it possible that John was wrong? That the Red Basilica is in fact not the point where the Apocalypse shall begin? I am no theologian, so I shall not tread there. It did make for interesting conversation as my brother and I then walked away from the Basilica (a Christian house of worship converted from the much older Egyptian devotion to Serapis and Isis – it is amazing how one faith builds upon the ruins of another) and began the steep climb up the hill for the summit, where sat the remnants of one of the ancient world’s greatest cities.

                Pergamum was mighty. It was learned. It was doomed. It did not fall to Rome militarily, as did so many other Asian powers. It was bequeathed to Rome by Attalus III who had no male heir. It was not beaten, but it was diminished. Time always acts as the great conqueror. Jeremy and I climbed upwards, along the motorway. Large buses full of Asian and European tourists streamed by, to discharge their passengers, allowing them a few scant hours to wander the remains of a city that once dictated the politics of an entire region. A shepherd motioned to us, indicating a hole in the fence. It would allow us access to the ruin, even though we were only part way up the slope, avoiding the hubbub at the summit. We thanked him in anglicised Turkish; he smiled and shook our hands. It was a pleasant exchange where all parties spoke, none understood the other, and all left happy.

                We continued to climb. There was a strong wind, blowing hot and dry, howling through the scattered stones, the leaning broken pillars, eroding the plinths and columns. This was a city founded by Lysimachus, a general to Alexander himself. It housed a library with over 200,000 texts. Modern medicine traced its roots to Galen at the Asclepion. It was a city that moved the world. And now it was nothing more than jumbled broken heaps of stone.

                A security guard had spotted us, and came hustling down to chide us in Turkish. We had not intended to avoid payment, had just assumed we could pay when we reached the summit. Although we could not make out his words, his meaning was clear. We followed him, double time, to the ticket kiosk, far above, where we waited our turn as some fat Germans fanned themselves, and chattering Asians photographed the two of us with the guard in tow. The summit was oddly devoid of charm. The Alter of Zeus, which should have graced it, hanging ethereally above the valley, is gone, stolen to the Berlin Museum, where it sits reconstructed in a room. Not here, where it should be, dominating the ruins. The theatre, the Temple of Trajan, all of the ruins that are left, still cannot fail to impress. The soaring marble edifices of houses both public and private, it is all almost too much; and the wind, still howling, raising up dust and memories. We stroll about, taking it all in. We spend hours, walking, looking, and thinking on the past.

After a time, as yet more busses rumble in, keeping to their hectic scheduled pace, we decide it is time for us to go. We retrace our steps, wending our way from the high city, through the descending layers. The remains of gymnasiums, bath houses, homes, temples all cross our paths. It is hard to tell one building from another, as so much is lost, broken, and given to time. As we reached the gap in the fence where our ascent began, Jeremy looked back and said “This is a forlorn and melancholy place.” I cannot help but agree. It was a city that moved the world, and now it is nothing more than an afternoon stop off for bus tripping tourists eager to snap a photo or steal a rock. The glory has faded, leaving behind nothing but broken stones, and a dry wind that stirs the dust. Time conquers all things.

Seasons In Exile

                “When I was your age, I had a wife, two kids, and a career.”  My Grandfather is concise. He does not understand why a person in my position would want to leave the stability of home, and head out into a much larger, uncertain world. A man of his generation strove for different things, it would seem; used a different barometer to measure the success of a life. I love and respect this man, but I do not agree with him.

                This was to be my farewell dinner. I was going away, perhaps for a long time. There was no set timetable, no clear date of return. All I knew was that I was leaving, feeling the call, the pull of travel. It would not be my first time abroad. I had been to Europe before. It was calling me, demanding I return. I was only too happy to heed the call.

                Travel is an amazing thing. You leave behind everything you know, everything that is familiar, and immerse yourself in the foreign. Languages change, customs differ, food excites the senses. There are national treasures to be seen in museums and landscapes to be discovered down seldom trodden laneways. Every day brings with it something new, be it an experience, an idea, a meal, a sip of wine; every day breathes wonder and life into those who dare to leave the comforts of home, and live as vagabonds.

                I have explained this to people time and time again. Many agree with the sentiment, but have not dared to try the reality themselves. Others disagree entirely. A smaller, select group know of exactly what I speak. Those with the Urge for Going. Vagabondage. Freedom. Call it what you will.

                And so it was, that I found myself with my rucksack on my back, and a ticket in my hand, waiting for the silver-winged chariot which was to take me to a faraway place. I was going once again, living another season in exile. I bid those close to me a very fond adieu. I knew that I would miss them dearly as I made my way through the world. Miss them, but still exalt in where I was and what I would be doing there.

                What will follow are but snippets, postcards of the mind, warm recollections of those heady days, when I lived abroad, out of a travel sack. I didn’t heed my Grandfather’s advice. I went out into the world, and made memories worth more than all the aspirations of his generation. It was well worth it.  After all, memories are the best things we will ever have.