Letter to friends October 1993
Ferried from Kusadasi, Turkey to Samos, Greece and then 2 days later to the island of Ikaria. What a wonderful place, under-touristed and overly affordable. The name comes from the myth of Ikarus and Daedalus who escaped the Labyrinth on the island of Crete by fashioning wings out of bird feathers, wax, and string. As the son Ikarus flew too near the sun, the wax melted and his wings fell apart. He fell to the sea and drowned and there the Island of Ikaria grew, so named in his memory. Well, more or less that’s the story.
While the decision making process of where to stay is always unnerving (I believe everyone that their place really is the best for me!) Ikaria was easier to manage. I was the only tourist and there were only two hawkers both selling the same pension. We bartered, as we’re supposed to (though I was clearly going with them) then walked in slightly uncomfortable silence to the lodge. I was totally alone there. Not another guest in sight and hardly an employee for that matter. At least it was affordable and the food actually was delicious. I felt like an impoverished queen.
On Monday I decided to tour the island local style and rented a moped. I have little to no…wait, actually I have NO experience driving a moped. But, what the hell, it’s what I’m here for! Not the best day for biking I suppose as the day was fairly gloomy and gusty. I drove hesitantly and haltingly up the curving mountain roads, stopping often to peer over the sheer and deadly cliffs. As I rose in altitude and trepidation, the wind screamed louder and my vision of being swept off the edge, plunging to my death became clearer.
Finally, safely, I reached the top and with a wee more confidence, sped down the other side until approaching rain convinced me to head back. Too late, I was caught in a downpour and pulled over to hide from the storm in a deserted, unfinished frame of house. Two hours later it was dark and the bike wouldn’t start. A kindly motorist pulled over to help get the engine going and left me to find my way in the night. It was really dark. And the headlights didn’t work. Then it rained again but this time with the added thrill of lightening. Terrified, I pulled over to wait out the 2nd storm in a small covered bus stop shelter. A local schoolboy thought it was pretty funny to see me cowering there and enjoyed the opportunity to practice English sarcasm by openly mocking me. He did show me how to restart the engine and after assurances I’d be off when the rain slowed, wished me luck and headed home for dinner.
The rain eased up after some time but then I couldn’t get the bike started again. I hunkered down for the night, too weary and annoyed to bother seeking help. Soon, I was very cold and hungry. My cache consisted of 2 granola bars, a roll of toilet paper, a lighter, cigarettes, a wooden flute, my journal and a camera with a dead battery. I burned toilet paper throughout the early night, making miniature bonfires to warm my finger tips. Snacks were quickly consumed and cigarettes slowly savored. It was too dark to write in the journal so I played the only two tunes on the flute I knew till even I was bored of my own sound then did my best to pretend I was there by choice.
Alas, not the most restful of evenings. But worst of all was the obvious embarrassment my little school-chum felt arriving at the bus stop with his friends the next morning to find me still there. Grumbling in Greek, he started the engine with, I think, no more than a flick of a finger and waved me away like a bothersome fly. Off I went in my wet, stinky, hungry shame. Luckily the weather was kinder on the return and the moped dealer returned my deposit though was furious at the state of the bike. There were a few missing parts and maybe a nick or two but could he not see the cartoonish humor of the bouncing front headlight dangling from a wire? I made reference to The Simpsons and he demanded 1/2 my deposit back. Looking forward to more culturally rewarding interactions. Love and all, T
