Author: nadaella

A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day seven: Chora and the beach

After yesterday’s adventure we are feeling tired and sleep more in the morning. Our desire to leave the house is insignificant, but since we still haven’t done all we set out to do, we eventually convince ourselves to get into the car and then do some more walking.

It’s a very hot day and our first stop is at the bakery. Being hungry, we buy more than what we strictly need and then, after having our usual morning ice-cream by the lavender bushes in the garden of the bakery, we head to Chora, the capital of the island, a high village up on a slope, built amfitheatrically and resembling a citadel, with its extremely narrow, steep streets and small, tiled roofed houses, with wooden blinds and dozens of colorful flowers.

We walk around and visit a shop where I get a nice pyrite pendant and then we pay a visit to the folkloric museum, which is really interesting to see, especially upstairs, where you can spend time inside a traditional Samothrakiam home and read about the different functions of the home areas, feel the texture of handwoven silk fabric and wonder at the Turkish influence in Greek traditional culture and at both the Turkish and the Greek influence in the Romanian culture.

Walking along one of the narrow streets, we stop at the end of this very tight and steep staircase lined with huge begonia clay pots and are approached by this old man speaking Greek to us. He disappears after manages to direct us upstairs to this 1300s tiny dark stone church and, as soon as we enter, I feel I can’t breathe for a few seconds. It feel like a lot of anxiety and sadness has been experienced there by people desperately seeking refuge. We spend a few minutes in the cool air of the tiny church and then we are back outside, in the scorching heat.

We also visit the ruins of the local castle, built in the 1400s as part of the defense system of the island. The view of the sea from among the ruins is very nice and walking on the iron net above the water cistern feels interesting, too. Over the years it fell pray to several conquerors and at the beginning of the 21st century it actually housed the headquarters of the local police, but the building was eventually taken down so that now the castle has historical and touristic value to the island.

A bit later, after we get some fruit (of course, you know for who) and cold water, we head south and crash on Lakkoma beach, under a bamboo umbrella, enjoying the soft breeze and the small waves licking the hot pebbles on the shore. We read and write, take naps and relax.

It is here that, for the first time, I read out loud a story to my boys: “The Fork-Tongued Princess” from “Tales of the Peculiar” by Ransom Riggs – the book I got from the English bookshop in Uppsala, Sweden, this winter, a month and a half before the little fruitarian runner came into our lives. He shows his gratitude through repeated kicks that start his father and me giggling.

 

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day six: 13 hours on Mount Saos

We set the alarm at 5.30 to climb the Feggari today – the highest peak of Mount Saos. Feggari means ‘moon’ because the moon forgets herself on the peak, legend has it. It is from this peak that Neptune watched the Trojan war, Homer says.

“We’re going to attack the peak!”, my travel companion announces.

“No, we’re not going to attack the peak and we’re not going to conquer it, either. We’re going to make friends with it.”, I reply in my usual soft tone, leaving him pensive for a short while.

We have been warned there is no marked route leading up the peak and finding our way is hard, especially in the beginning. Having arrived in Therma, we park the car in the shade and go up the road left of the thermal baths (one old and one new building, both closed now). We pass Paradisos reataurant on the right and a few small motels and guest houses and then we get into the plain tree forest, up a whispering stream. We soon reach a crossroad and have no idea whether we should go left or right. We spot arrows pointing to the right and follow them to a closed gate. After some confusion, we decide only that can be the way and open the gate and go up the road, in the hot sun, accompanied by the baa of goats.

The humidity is very high and is making us highly uncomfortable. It slowly decreases as we are going higher and higher and we soon get into another forest: one with shorter and younger trees, shedding their outer bark, in a perfect combination of light green and dark red. Below, ferns are rising above the dead leaves layer under which the rocks are hiding.

Looking back, we can see the silver sea behind us as we are climbing. Never before have I had such an amazing view down below while climbing up a mountain and I can’t help thinking what a fabulous descent we will have.

As we are climbing higher and higher, we spot marking (metal plates inscribed with “E6” nailed on trees and red round paint marks on rocks), while the temperature slightly drops and the humidity significantly decreases. So we gradually go easier on the panting and we no longer look like we’ve just come out of the shower.

If you associate the mountains with cold weather, prepare for scorching heat and very high humidity on Mount Saos. That is why everyone in their right mind starts early (6 am or earlier). We started at 8 (though we did wake up at 5.30). And everyone we meet is descending, while we are the only ones still going up. Everyone is warning us “it’s difficult”.

Further up, the forest changes and it’s now oak trees that provide  precious shade to the climber and shelter to the tireless singing birds piercing the constant noise of the cicadas. Aromatic plants (thyme, oregano, melissa and mint) send waves of scent up into the air and we seem to be all floating in this perfumed fairy tale land of century-old trees, zen goats, myriads of curious insects and the shimmering sea below.

Only close to the summit do we find a spring and we drink and refill our bottle and refresh. Then, a bit higher,  we eat in the shade of a very old oak tree. Initially, when we are still optimistic, we think we’ll eat upon our descent. Fortunately, we are well inspired and eat before we got out of the forest and into the sun. The descend will have to wait quite a few hours.

When we get out of the oak forest, an area of sadistic short bushes awaits. And the trail is so narrow that they scratch the skin above my trekking boots. I wish I had a pair of trousers to change my shorts especially for this part of the track.

With the sadistic bushes successfully behind us, we are now in the kingdom of rocks – big and small, loose and stable, they are a challenge for our abused joints. And they will stay with us all the way up to the peak.

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the way because the marking is not very obvious or easy to spot (and it will be even more elusive during the descent), but we make it. After seven hours we are on the highest peak. The view here is flabbergasting. I absolutely love being able to see the sea surrounding the island on all parts and identify villages and beaches where we have been. We spend 30 minutes on the peak and then we start the descent, perfectly aware that it’s going to be a challenge most part of the way and hoping to be back at the car before dark.

We make two more stops on our way down – one at the spring, where my travel companion picks a huge bunch of oregano and another one of thyme to take home with us and they have now invaded our room. The second stop is in the forest, where we have dinner on a fallen, dry tree trunk, a huge bug staring at us from below its antennae resting still on a perky brunch the whole time.

It’s 9 pm when we are back at the car and we started the ascent at 8 am. We are laughing imagining dialogues among the noisy goats we meet on the last portion of the road, before getting back to the plane tree forest. Dead tired, with blisters on my feet, I am grateful I didn’t suspect the whole adventure would take us 13 hours. I might have passed on it and what a pity that would have been. Still, I have the well being of this small boy growing inside me to consider besides my own desires now and that is something so new and life changing.

Probably without a bump you would go a bit faster but where’s the charm in that?

We needed 7 hours for the ascent to the peak and 5.5 hours for the descent. Had we started earlier in the morning and had we known the way, we could’ve probably spared one hour. But not more, for sure. So I guess it’s safe to say someone in good physical condition and without a bump, starting early in the morning (at 6 am or even earlier) can do the ascent in approximately 5 or 6 hours. That is the longest we were expecting to need for the ascent, but we were late and wrong.

“Still it’s only 1600 m high. That’s not a lot of you think about it”, my travel companion remarks during dinner in the forest. “Only you start climbing from sea level…”

If you’re planning to climb Feggari during pregnancy (and probably other mountain peaks, as well), I think the following should be considered:

  • Make sure you have your doctor’s approval to make effort and do sports. Pregnancy is not an illness, it’s a normal state for the female body and you should be just fine doing what you normally do (with extra care, of course) unless your doctor advises otherwise. On the other hand, any pregnancy book or specialist will probably tell you that if you haven’t done any sport or exercised prior to your pregnancy, it is not advisable to start now. I read the best way to make sure you are ok is to be able to have a conversation through any effort you make. If you can’t, you need to decrease the intensity. Anyway, I guess the first and second trimester are more comfortable for this kind of adventure.
  • Use good sun protection and apply it more than once. Also wear something over your head and sunglasses. The sun is really strong.
  • Wear comfortable clothes and shoes, fit for mountain climbing. Make sure they are neither too tight nor too large – any small discomfort will become a big issue during a long and difficult climb.
  • Take just what is strictly necessary. With all your tissues being softer and more elastic now, extra pressure on your joints is the last thing you want. Trust me, I have been there. When I climbed up the Ciucaș peak in Făgăraș three weeks ago, my backpack was heavier because we had to camp and spend a cold night in a tent. The pain in my hips was a significant discomfort overnight and a couple of days after the hike.
  • I don’t suffer from heartburn, cravings or severe hunger, so I didn’t need to pack snacks, we just had some food (and fruit – peaches – for the little fruitarian runner on board, of course). Take whatever you really need.
  • There is just one accessible water source on the way up to Feggari, after you leave the springs and stream in Therma behind. Water is a must. Take water with you. Especially since heat and humidity cause you to sweat a lot and dehydrate.
  • With the shift in the center of gravity, it is much easier to lose your balance so be careful and take your time.
  • Rock climbing is not advisable during pregnancy, as far as I have read. On Feggari, the last portion of the route is exclusively on rocks – no ropes or chains, but it is quite challenging and high.
  • Do go with a travel partner or a group, never alone.

 

Good luck and enjoy every step of the way! It’s not a walk in the park, but I assure you it’s totally worth it.

 

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day five: A special day on Samothrakis

It is my travel companion’a birthday today, so it’s a special day. We are kissed by butterflies in the morning, both on the balcony and outside the bakery while we are having our ice cream. The kissing continues in the Sanctuary of the Great Gods, a very special ancient place of rare stillness and worshiped rocks, as well as numerous wise olive trees, where we see baby olives for the first time.

The archeological museum is closed for repairing work, so we just visit the archeological site, of which I have read is one of the most important archeological sites in Greece and the place where the statue of the Winged Nike of Samothrakis was discovered. But that’s now at the Louvre, so I guess I’ll have to go see it there some day.

It is a very hot day today and we need time in the shade, drinking plenty of water, resting and talking. We take a long break at the spring outside the archeological site and then go to Fonias River, a truly wonderful place, a fairy tale valley going up the mountain, in the soft music of the waters on which dragon flies are dancing tirelessly, their wings shining in the hot sun filtered by the leaves and sent back to he sky by the water’s mirror. We are too hot and take a bath in the first ‘vathra’ we find.

Then we go and watch the sunset on Panagia Kamariotissa beach, on this long and narrow stony stretch of land going far into the sea. Everything is perfect here, at the end of the world, where we collect stones and eat cherries and pears washed on the sea (slightly salted this time, for the little fruitarian runner). I don’t take any pictures, but watch that perfect red ball of fire tonight diving into the cold waters of the sea. I just want to remember, I want it forever in my heart and mind. Here and now, with the perfect color of your skin, your boy’s face looking up at the sky and my proud, round bump under your hands.

I imagine watching the sunset together with our kid and telling him how the sun goes to sleep in a land faraway, beyond the great sea. And later his dad telling him the truth: “Son, it actually goes to the other side of the world, to wake up the Chinese; because someone has to work in this world.”

 

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day four: The southern part of Samothrakis

Finally a sunny day, spent entirely on the southern part of the island. Started the day at Lakkoma beach, where we took our first swim in the sea. The water was a bit cold in the  morning, but nothing like the one in the mountain rock pool the day before. The little fruitarian runner loves it when I swim.

Then we drive to Profitis Ilias, the highest village in the southern part of the island, famous for their goat cooking (which we don’t try). We take a walk, visit the local church (I am surprised to find it open, since not a soul is here :P), then we have water and juice at a cafe nearby, where all the Greek I can remember is very useful.

The little fruitarian  runner gets his daily portion of fruit, everywhere I go. So here we pick sour cherries, wax cherries and apricots from the trees lining the road, some in deserted gardens, others not. Since I’ve grown my bump, people seem very tolerant with me and everyone is staring as if we were some kind of aliens. We sort of are, I guess.

We later crash on the Pahia Amos beach, a long, sandy one at the end of the road on the southern coast. It is here that we wait for the sunset and make plans for the next day.

Only at 8 pm do we realize the sun has the peculiar tendency to set in the west. Most of the times, at least on this planet. And we are in the south.

So we get in the car and drive to catch the sunset back in Profitis Ilias, up on a hill behind the church we visited earlier. It is so peaceful as herds are heading back to their homes and dogs are barking in the distance. I wonder how some people can be hiding in their homes right now, wasting their time in front of their TVs when such wonderful shows are put on by nature. Every day at about the same time, in the same place. You just can’t miss it unless you really want to.

A more quieter day, finally a hot summer day in the drier, Mediterranean climate of the south, driving along narrow roads cutting through ancient olive orchards. Such a small island with so many micro climates, so few inhabitants and even fewer tourists!  So different from the rest of Greece we have seen so far and in a completely different world than Romania. We can’t help loving it.

 

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day three: The magic forests and the waterfalls of Samothrakis

I love the silence this morning. I can sense it in the semi darkness, before I completely wake up in the warm arms that I love. Then, when we later open the balcony door, cries of peacocks pour into the room, along with the baa of the sheep in the garden separating us from the sea.

I remember I had dreams of the bakery and pancakes and discussions about sensitive issues and I am amused by the reminiscence. The sky is clear this morning and the sun is shining. It’s a warm day and the bakery is waiting: warm bread, kritsinia, spinach and cheese pie and ice cream for breakfast, as well as mountain tea with lemon and honey, served on the balcony.

We are going to Therma today and up to see the waterfalls. There is just one sign pointing to the waterfalls and you have to guess or ask the way if you can speak a little Greek  (otherwise, I suppose you can just use your hands to explain). Carlota told us about a crowdfunding campaign on the island to mark trekking routes on the mountain and there are posters of it on the ferry too. “Samothrace walk with me” – check it out here and of Facebook here, as well as on Kickstarter here. As far as I can tell, it’s an admiring initiative and I do hope it works out for them.

I love climbing the rocks up the trail, the fresh view and the gurgling, crystal clear water, kissed by ultramarine dragonflies, butterflies, toads and lizards. Nowhere before have I seen such love between two different kingdoms. The trees and the rocks. The lovemaking seems to have been going on for centuries. They are perfectly fused together. Hard to tell which part is tree and which part is rock. A connection that breeds a new species into this enchanted forest.

copac

Having gone up to the last waterfall, when coming back down we stop on the side of this rock pool and, since no one else is there, we take off everything and get in. The water is freezing cold, almost like the ocean last September in Porto. When we get out, a few minutes later, I enjoy  lying like a lizard on a rock in the sun, my proud bump looking up,  feeling so beautiful and free. No longer bothered by my imperfections, I am now free to simply enjoy the power this gives me. Speaking of power, the little fruitarian runner is meditating. He has every reason to. He is in the perfect place for it.

Back in Therma, after having apricots, sour cherries and wax cherries from the trees on the side of the road (fuel for the fruit runner, of course), we are searching for the thermal baths.

“This way, five hours up, four hours down. To the peak. But maybe is hard for you, with the…” the middle aged German tourist says, rubbing his belly, happy to finally have someone to talk to. “I am old, kaput”, he adds.

Rain starts so we head to the car and drive to this empty beach at the end of the road along the northern part of the island up to the most eastern point. The water seems too cold to take a swim, so we doze on the towels lying over the pebbles. The music comes from bells, goats, soft waves, crows (not seagulls) and the wind. The little fruitarian runner takes notice of the pebbles. I can’t help thinking it’s almost the end of our second day on the island and we still haven’t swum in the sea…

When it gets too windy and too cold, we get back to the car and drive till we get to a sunny spot. We stretch like lizards and enjoy the view of the setting sun. Having rested enough (i.e. having pressed my ribs against the pebbles to the point of pain), I assume a meditation pose and start a small meditation exercise. The little fruitarian runner suddenly leaves his usual meditative state and starts a series of swims. Perhaps the sound of the waves is reminding him of his swimming adventures in previous lifetimes.

In the middle of my meditation I get a strong craving for watermelon. No, I don’t have cravings, actually. I just think it’s a great idea. So I convince my travel companion it is the perfect spot and time for having watermelon. He eventually gives in and takes a trip to a nearby shop. He comes back victorious. I can’t help laughing at the image of him holding the big watermelon against the warm light of the setting sun.

I then come up with a newspaper article in my head, while eating the cracked melon, its sticky juice running up my fingers:

“Romanian couple savagely devour a watermelon on the shores of the Aegean Sea

In Samothrakis, the island of the great gods, a special place with pure waters and  high energy, having spent the day stealing fruit from locals’ gardens, a Romanian couple crack a watermelon against a sharp stone on the sea shore and savagely devour it, using their bare hands.

Witnesses state that the woman looks visibly pregnant. Authorities have expressed their concern about their parental skills. Social services have taken notice of this case. The Romanian embassy in Greece is expected to formulate an official statement for the Greek authorities.”

I must be crazy. Halfway through my first pregnancy, I’m going on long road trips, camping, trekking on mountain peaks, climbing rocks, skinny dipping in mountain pools, cracking melons on the sea shore. Which actually makes me confident about the next two (hopefully), to be perfectly honest. Brutally honest.

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day two: Alexandroupolis – Samothrakis

The next day I am woken by the stiffness in my back and the rain tapping on the tent. The little fruitarian runner performs a soft but lengthy training and then seems to go back to his usual meditative state.

When we build up the courage to get out of the tent, we are greeted by a beautiful rainbow rising above the sea and the rain stops just in time for us to get our stuff back in the car, have a small breakfast standing next to the car and head for the harbor to catch our ferry. Not before we study the orange flowers of a small tree whose buds look like fruit. When they reach maturity, their shell cracks and the flower explodes in the outer world. I declare it a unique phenomenon: having fruit before the flower. My travel companion says they’re just buds.

The two and a half hour ferry ride is far from spectacular, except for the sight of a beautiful dolphin springing seemingly from under the ferry and swimming away. The cool breeze is relaxing and the clouds tucked into one another like sheep in a sleeping herd are a spectacular view accompanied by the intense ultramarine blue of the sea underneath.

We spend almost the entire trip outside on the deck, determined to resist the cold wind and spot dolphins and countless shades of blue both above and below. Up on the deck we seem to be in a state of limbo, suspended between two worlds, traveling from the continent to the island.

When the arrival time approaches, we move to the left side of the boat and finally see the island: a high mountain in the middle of the sea. A thick blanket of clouds is covering the shy peak, hiding it from that shameless touristic gaze cast by so many pairs of eyes on the ferry.

samothrakis harbour from the ferry

Our host, a dark skinned, thin Spanish lady in her forties, Carlota, has written to me on WhatsApp and is now waiting for us “by the big green container on the right of the harbor”.

“I came here nine years ago with Erasmus, fell in love with the island and never left. It’s a very powerful place”, she confesses and, noticing the blue scarab locket on her necklace and remembering her meditating clay frog picture on WhatsApp, it all makes sense. We are of the same kind.

We then follow her car to her husband’s family’s place and I immediately fall in love with the beautiful stone paved garden, with its two small tables, trees packed with ripe fruit and the huge geraniums and begonias in bloom everywhere. We get inside and she offers a studio with a kitchenette instead of the small room I booked online.

“I can give you something bigger for the same price. Since we are free, why not. Here, this one has a balcony and this one doesn’t. Choose the one that you like.”

We make the choice,  but change our minds after she leaves and eventually move into the room with a balcony – it’s prettier and more luminous. The house has a kitchen and it looks like an old family house turned into a small motel. The owners, her parents-in-law, still live upstairs.

After she leaves, they arrive home and park their utility van next to our car. Her mother-in-law starts calling her name, so I take the opportunity to get out on the balcony and practice my Greek, since I have been warned by Carlota that she speaks no English at all. I say hello and explain that her daughter-in-law is not there. I am rewarded with delicious,  freshly picked apricots and a big smile.

We later get out of the house, in between heavy showers, in search of the bakery. We find it much later and it is closed, like pretty much everything else around here, actually.

“It’s still low season”, Carlota warned us as soon as we stepped foot on the island.

Since we come across no open shops, we pick fruit from the trees lining the road, so by the time we get back to the house, still without a map or food, our stomachs are full of apricots and sour cherries. The little fruitarian runner is satisfied.

“What shall we do next?”

“I know, let’s take a nap!”

And, with the soothing sound of the heavy rain hitting the leaves in the garden, one third of us does just that while another third is meditating and the third third fixes the blog and starts posting.

At sunset the rain decides to give us a break and sheep are grazing peacefully in the neighboring garden and I realize for the first time we have a view of the sea from the balcony. It is not so obvious, since the eyes are tempted to stop at the trees separating the two gardens in front. The water is now shining under the setting sun and cannot escape my vigilance.

At sunset we get out and see how islandy it looks from the harbor. We eventually find some shops open and get what we need. The shopkeepers are bored and still have not activated their tourist-attracting mode.

We have dinner on the balcony – salad and cheese and make plans for the next day. It’s been a weird, rainy day. Perhaps sensing my uneasiness, the little fruitarian runner is very discreet with his evening training.

 

Related post: “A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day one: Bucharest – Alexandroupolis”

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A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day one: Bucharest – Alexandroupolis

The little fruitarian runner starts his morning training just as we get into the car, finally ready to hit the road again. His soft, repeated kicks move me to tears. I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for everything in my life. I must be the happiest person on earth right now and it feels like I am melting into everything, no more borders, distances collapse and we all fuse. I seem to be the only one to notice, the rest of the world simply carries on. But that changes nothing.

The road to the Bulgarian border is short and wet, a blessing after all the heat in Bucharest. And then it takes forever to cross the bridge over the Danube, so we have a picnic in the car right in the middle of it, eating apricots and apples (fruit, of course, for the little fruitarian runner) and admiring the view from above the river. Being suspended on a high bridge over a big river, the car being shaken as if by small, consecutive earthquakes feels a little bit like being pregnant: all control systems are obsolete and each new breath and every passing second bring new experiences. Exciting!

An eternity and a half later, having been angered by the people crouched in their big cars cutting the line at the Bulgarian border, we are finally out of Romania. It’s amazing how different everything feels once you’ve crossed the border of your home country. Suddenly the pressure is off and it feels like karma is finally giving you a well deserved break. Or so it feels to me.

Crossing Bulgaria feels peaceful enough and the traffic is far from busy. Rather the roads seem underpopulated, giving the traveler space to contemplate the green fields, the fat trees and the gray clouds crammed up in the sky, rain pouring down from them in soft, transparent waves of a silk curtain, its hem ardently sweeping the road.

I will not discuss the apparent poverty of the Bulgarian villages, for they are filthy rich compared to the Cambodian villages I traveled through last year. A totally different world. Their simplicity is relaxing to the eye. So interesting how little connection I feel to this country. Not much difference compared to Romania, but still, to me it’s just a land in between, a space to be crossed, not a destination.

Having crossed the mountains through heavy rain and fog descending from the forest like the wise spirits of our deceased Indian ancestors, as we are approaching the Greek border the sun is shining and the temperature is rising. Farmers have already harvested their wheat crops and the lower, drier scenery brings back to memory Greek words and phrases for me to (ab)use in the coming week.

We come into yet another heavy shower as we are crossing the Greek border – a small, old place that appears as a surprise in the middle of nowhere. And the little fruitarian runner starts his afternoon training – a much softer version of his energetic morning training – pulling all my attention to my lower abdomen and bringing back images of colorful fish swimming peacefully around me while snorkeling in the Aegean Sea a few years ago.

Finally, we are in Greece! Back to one of our most beloved homes after a few years of absence. And yet it doesn’t feel like Greece yet. I look around searching for that unique, familiar feeling that softens the tongue as it wrapping itself around every word, sliding against the roof of the mouth with such sensuous determination. It’s still too green, too hilly and too rainy.

But as we are leaving Bulgaria farther behind, Greece gradually becomes more like her old self and l lean back, anxiously waiting for that exciting first glimpse of the sea. And finally the sun! Coming down like a blessing – a huge hand, its fingers all widely spread to reach as wide an area as possible. And there is such stillness. We barely speak a word. There is no need. A while later, old Greek music, with its coarse, serious, masculine tunes, fills the car, sweeping silence away and bringing back impressions from other lifetimes.

And then we get a little lost in a beautiful small village, taking the time to admire tiny, welcoming gardens and wondering where everybody is. Until we pass the local pub and see all the men in the village gathered there, sitting and drinking in silence, staring at the empty road. The women must be cooking dinner in their low ceiling white kitchens overlooking the back yards.

Finding our way again, we are greeted by a spectacular rainbow on the left of the road, before coming right into a storm, equipped with great lightening and all. There is no rush, so we can afford to simply be happy, our quiet company of three.

Alexandroupolis greets us a bit later, with its typically Greek narrow streets and Mediterranean modern architecture and I get my first glimpse of the sea from the harbor, which leaves me a bit unsatisfied. I get consolation by reminding myself I have a full week on an island coming up.

We check out the harbor and find a motorcycling gathering taking place. We locate the ticket office and then head to the camping. We have a ferry to catch tomorrow morning and, after the long drive today, just want to crash as soon as possible.

We put up the tent on soft, muddy ground, next to a beautiful birch tree, in spot 69, a square lined with tall pink rose bays, letting out their discreet sweet scent. Dinner is fish accompanied by butterflies, a black cat and a more rewarding view of the sea.

sea view at the alexandroupolis camping

And we finally call it a day.

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The end of a journey

‘Congratulations! Welcome to the fourth grade!” I shake this long haired boy’s hand and then bend forward and take him into my arms, having carefully placed a beautiful flower coronet on his head. “I can’t wait to meet you again, on numerous happy occasions.” I continue in a low voice, close to his ear. “I love you!” I tell him grabbing his shoulders and looking him straight in the eye.

“I love you too…” he whispers, throwing his arms around me again and squeezing me hard.

This is a child I was advised to give up on back when I took the class two years ago.

“If I were you”, the school mentor told me in a one to one discussion, “I’d take the class on condition that he leaves. You can’t handle him. I wouldn’t keep him either, and I am so much more experienced than you are.”

I disregarded the advice and took the class the way it was.  He was not the most challenging child.

My greatest accomplishment as a class teacher is not what I have managed to teach my kids in these two years we’ve spent together. Not even being able to ‘handle’ them. I have loved all of them – this is my greatest accomplishment. And I have been loved by all of them.  I have made a significant difference. In their lives and in the world. I will never be forgotten. And they will always be a part of me. They have helped shape who I am today perhaps as much as I have helped shape who they are now.

Going home in my new life, I’m looking at my reflection in the dark window as the noisy  train is rushing along cold and damp tunnels. The lavender in the flower coronet next to my three owls on a branch present in the paper bag I’m holding offers such a refreshing feeling.

“Would you like to sit?” I hear a voice and follow the line from the fingertips tapping my arm to the smiling face of this stout young woman, offering me her seat on the subway.

“Oh, thank you!” I reply smiling back. “It’s ok, I’m getting off at the next stop.”

I’ve really started showing.

 

 

The emerald journey

I have embarked on the most exciting journey I’ve ever been so far. I have a new heart beating inside me. A new heart. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine hearing a brand new heart beating inside you? One that’s grown out of your own ‘material’, one that your body so cleverly produces, in perfect organisation of its cells. One that only so temporarily almost belongs to you… Never before have I been so scared and happy and in love at the same time.

I have all sorts of weird dreams that my subconscious mind uses as a secret and safe valve to bring its fears out into the light. And I am changing at such a fast pace it’s amazing and terrifying at the same time. Who am I becoming? I know perfectly well who I am leaving behind. And I have absolutely no regrets. I have lived. I continue to live. Differently. I am treading a virgin path in an unmapped territory. Everything is new. Every breath, in such dire need of more oxygen, every step, every hope, every vision.

My constant backache teaches me humility. Such a precious gift… I never cease to say thank you.

 

Another kind of trip. A Moroccan dream

The sea has flooded the streets in Marrakesh and everyone is struggling through the lukewarm water – people, cars, trams, dark red buildings covered in intricate ornaments. 

My skin is so much darker now. And my face so much broader. My short black hair is so thick and dusty and my narrow eyes are searching in the mirror for a familiar expression, a familiar look, that strong, piercing force and the flush of passion I am so used to. 

I am a stout man in his late thirties, wearing black clothes covered in a thin, golden layer of sand. My face is square, my hands are big and my arms strong and dull. My round stomach is like a big ball that has swallowed my flexibility and grace. 

I miss myself. Marocco is beautiful, being a man is interesting, but I want my old life back. I must be a huge fan of traveling if I am now traveling through people, not only space. Still, I am done. I want to go back to being me. I like my former life. I want to be a woman again.