I suspect I’m not the only one here who resists going along with the herd. Telling me ‘but that’s the way we do things here’ sets off an instantaneous, knee-jerk reaction that probably has its roots somewhere in a childhood where my only siblings were (considerably) older brothers. There’s only so much direction you’ll put up with before the Nope reflex becomes part of your social behaviour.
But I’m Canadian, and that makes me, paradoxically, a follower of official rules. I believe that most laws have a basis in reason, and that they should be obeyed. Plus I’m afraid of being found out, which is why I’ll wait for the red light to change even if it’s 3AM and every other driver is in bed asleep.
So we’re on dry land, having finished the sailing part of our holiday and on the road headed for the Peloponnese and the first of three destinations. Having previously agreed to a policy of shared responsibility in most areas, MFB and I take turns behind the wheel, and it’s my turn first. Right off the bat, we have a problem.
The vast majority of Greek highways consist of two lanes, with a paved shoulder on each side. The speed limits vary depending on how curvy the curves are, and I adhere to them religiously. I’m not always so respectful on home ground, I admit, but in unfamiliar territory I’m prepared to believe they’re there for good reason. And I have been taught, and agree, that the road shoulders are off-limits, unless for emergencies such as blown tires, vomiting children, or an urgent need to pee.
But the Greeks view things differently. They’re not the only ones to consider the shoulder as an extra driving lane, but they are my introduction to this unnerving practice. So there’s a car on the shoulder, doing slightly under the speed limit. Do I pass? If I do, do I just stay in my own lane or do I pretend that this is a regulation pass, and move into the oncoming lane? What if there’s somebody coming the other way, and I start to overtake Slowpoke in my own lane only to see an obstacle on the shoulder ahead?
So I stick to my Canadian rules of the road. I might be in Greece, but I don’t think it’s safe to pass somebody on the shoulder, nor am I going to move over for the Mercedes SUV riding my tail. (Digression: According to reliable sources, Greece is having an economic meltdown. In that case, why are there more luxury cars per linear kilometre than in France?)
So, pass me already! It’s not like I’m just poking along, but after a few kilometres of determined passive-aggression, I have gained a following. It’s not pretty. I can only withstand so much of horn-blaring-arm-waving pressure until my defiance deflates. I move marginally to the right and straddle the yellow line for a bit, but as concessions go, it is ineffective. Finally I cave totally and move right onto the shoulder, only to find that it runs out 100 feet later, replaced by a bridge abutment. 
After a while I get used to it, and decide that maybe the Greeks are resourceful, not irresponsible. Just because there isn’t a passing lane doesn’t mean you can’t make one up, right? There are a couple of breathless moments when somebody coming the other way doesn’t play the game and forces the overtaking car over the centre line. We now understand why there’s a roadside shrine every couple of miles.
We have a map of Greece printed in France, which gives French versions of Greek place names. They do not correspond to the English names that are occasionally shown on the road signs, so this mean we have to decipher the Cyrillic-Greek names and match them up with what’s on the signs—at 80 miles an hour. I am probably better at calculus.
This gorgeous bridge crosses the Ionian Sea from the mainland to the Peloponnese peninsula at the port city of Patra. The one-way toll is about 11USD, cash only. I have fully embraced the concept of the cashless society, but that won’t take you far in Greece. Credit cards are unwelcome, not because the Greeks shun indebtedness, but because cash is easier to hide from the taxman. In response to the economic crisis, an army of tax inspectors has fanned out across the country in an attempt to curtail the black market economy, and anyone caught trading services or goods for cash without a receipt is slapped with a 1700 Euro fine (about $2500US). But suspicion of corruption runs high, and many Greeks remain convinced that tax revenue goes straight into the pockets of government officials.
A compromise is struck between MFB and me about the route to take across the Peloponnese mountains from Patra to Nafplion, just south of the ancient ruins of Mycenae. He wanted 100% scenic (read ‘non-stop hairpin turns), but settles for half-highway, half-scenic. Even then it takes about nine hours to do 250 miles, but the reward looks like this:
Me:‘Why can’t you smile??’ Her: ‘Why do you have to have a picture of EVERYthing?’
Nafplion (Napflion? P before f or the other way around? Damned if I can remember.) is a pretty coastal town about 55 miles south-east of Athens. Our room at the pension opens directly onto a narrow street in the old town, and the place felt like a movie set.
I’m thinking I should 
swap my house for this one, which overlooks the port and its ancient fortress. 
We all wish we could stay longer here, but next morning we’re off to …
…the dry, rocky landscape of Mycanae, from where—despite its geographical isolation—a great civilization ruled and dominated ancient Greece. Agamemnon returned here, fresh from his victory over Troy, only to be murdered by his wife and her lover. Mycanae dates from the second millennium BC and was destroyed by the Argos in 463 BC – it is a site so ancient that it was already a tourist attraction during the Roman age!
The ‘Lion’s Gate’ (middle photo) is the oldest known monument in existence, and at right is a Bronze Age example of a secant ogive, the single keystone at the apex of an arch, an architectural construct commonly seen in Gothic churches. I marvel at the brilliance of ancient engineering, but the Corinth Canal fair took my breath away.
A joint project of the Hungarian and Greek governments, it cut through the isthmus between the Peloponnese and central Greece, taking 13 years to build. If your ship is narrow enough, it shortens the journey from the Ionian Sea to the Aegean by 125 nautical miles. 
Up next is Delphi, of Oracle fame, and a major site of worship to the god Apollo. In 586 BC the first Pythian games, precursors to the modern Olympics, were held here.
And if ever you thought you were the centre of the universe, you were wrong. It’s always been Delphi, where the beauteous omphalos,(navel) of the earth still remains to prove it.
The paving stones on the pathways around the ruins are shiny-slippery from thousands of years of being walked on. I’ve decided that my travel wish list should include all UNESCO World Heritage sites. Delphi is the fourth I can cross off my list.
Apollo’s temple. 
Driving from Delphi to Itea, where we spend the second night, we are agog at the immensity of this olive tree orchard. Nothing else grows in the valley, save the occasional errant cedar.
They taste the same no matter what the alphabet
Another UNESCO world heritage site, Meteora, with its sandstone formations rising spectacularly from the Plain of Thessaly…. 
…on top of which are Eastern Orthodox monasteries, the first of which was built by hermit monks in the 14th century, seeking refuge from an expanding Turkish invasion. 
And cats! They are everywhere—on the streets, in restaurants, shops, parks. The country is overrun with felines. Some are abandoned, most are feral, and all are thin. And fecund. I wanted to adopt them all.
We leave the next day for Egouminitsa to catch the ferry across to Italy. We get there by mid-afternoon and after check-in, there are still 8 hours to kill. Our friend Jos told us about a hotel-spa at Sivota, 20 kilometres away, where we can lounge around the pool for a minimal fee, so we head in that direction. I’ve had my fill of winding Greek roads but the resort is worth the detour. It’s very upscale, and there I am in the same shorts I’ve worn for the past three days and my hair is clamped to my skull with sweat. It’s hard, but I make myself not care.
We swim and read, and drink iced coffee. There is supposed to be a 10 Euro fee for pool privileges but nobody asks us for it. After a light dinner in the poolside restaurant and a spectacular sunset, we’re on our way back to the port.
We leave Anne to sit in the car and wander along the quayside, waiting for the ferry. There’s no security, no uniforms. People and kids pass the time watching ships disgorge their cargo, and small groups of young men—boys, really—emerge from the shadows at the edge of the quay, moving furtively, their faces wary. I’ve seen the reports on the evening news about Afghan boys, some as young as twelve, who make their way through Iraq and Iraq and across Europe to Calais, where they spend months in miserable conditions waiting for a chance to get to England. It hits home that this is real life in front of us, not just an item on the news. What wouldn’t they give for my ease of movement, my right to live in Europe, my security? The ticket in my pocket feels very heavy with symbolism.
A thin, handsome dog pads purposefully between the waiting cars, ignoring calls from sympathetic dog-lovers. He’s looking for food, and isn’t interested in anybody’s transient affection. Out of the blackness a behemoth looms, blazing with light. It’s our ferry, just arrived from Brindisi. Loading is faster than on the journey over; and in under an hour we’re on board.
As I leave the car deck, I turn back to make sure the car is locked, and see the dog. He must have come up the ramp unnoticed, and now he’s on his way to Italy. He flops down underneath a camper van and rests his nose on his paws. I want to think that he’s headed back home, that he hops the ferry the way some dogs prowl the streets. I hope so.
Kalinikta, puppy.
Efharisto, Greece.
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