June 7-10: Santorini

Santorini used to be a volcano, until one day in the 2^nd millennium BC, when a high-pressure accumulation of steam in its inner chambers caused an explosion twenty times more powerful than Hiroshima. The sound was apparently heard three times (travelling thrice around the earth) in China. The ash thrown kilometers into the air caused temporary global cooling. The subsequent tidal wave probably wiped out the Minoans. And the centre of the volcano collapsed, leaving a dramatic mountainous ring cracked into three pieces.

We stayed in Kamari, a beach town on the southeastern edge of the ring. Very Noosa-like – a laidback beachfront lined with a walkway, shops and cafes – except for the black sand beach. Most of the “sand” on the island is volcanic in origin, and in fact most of the “sand” is large round pebbles and stones. As a result, unless you bring a mat, it is impossible to lie on the beach on sunny days due to the hot black stones. Almost like one of those traditional Chinese massages, except without the massage.

Kamari Beach. 6 euros to sit on a lounge chair. Ripoff!

Santorini is blessed with many beautiful beaches, and for us the highlight was Vlihada Beach, a secluded black sand beach backed by a sheer sand cliff with a sponge-like surface – perfect for reading and getting baked (by the sun!).

Vlihada Beach. Prize for first person to correctly identify gender of lone bather.

The much-vaunted Red Beach was not quite as fun. Despite its striking similarity to the Martian landscape in Total Recall, the severe winds whipped up so much stingy volcanic red sand that we were forced from the beach. Even worse was Kambia Beach, which was surfaced with high piles of white seaweed where the sand should be, giving the impression we were walking on muesli.

Red Beach. Red sand on left, "muesli" on right.

To reach these isolated areas required a hire car, and Limmy was excited to get his first taste of left hand drive in the sporty “new” Hyundai Atos – a smaller, more fragile version of the Excel. After getting to grips with driving on the right and changing gears on the other side, we were so inspired by our new-found independence that we sought out the White Beach, the supposedly-beautiful counterpart to the Red Beach – accessible only by gravel road.

Just as “sand” means black pebbles, “gravel” must mean large rocks, soft sand and large divots. After an uninspiring 2 km descent down such a road – only to discover that the White Beach was so named for its bleached seaweed (ie Kambia Beach) – we proceeded to tackle the uphill return leg with the awesome two-wheel drive power of the Atos. Sadly, a mistake. On a particularly steep section, we found ourselves embedded in the sand, wedged between rocks, revving in futility.

Prior to the fateful sand bogging. T-shirt digitally added for modesty.

Unsure of the next step – and after digging around the wheels and trying to push (like on Japanese Story) – we were extremely fortunate that the only other visitors to the beach, two friendly middle-aged Portuguese couples, arrived thirty minutes later. They managed to push us out of our rut, but were unable to help us up the rocky incline after several attempts. We feared the worst (needing to be towed, paying a large excess) until, serendipitously, after rolling back down the hill, Limmy noticed a second route – clearly designed to go around this impossible section. As we cautiously, but successfully, drove away, the Portuguese shouted: “In life there is always an alternative way!” Amen. The rental agency seemed to turn a blind eye to the fact that both the Atos and Limmy were completely covered in dust upon our return.

Santorini is also considered beautiful for its cliffs, and prior to returning the trusty Atos we visited both tips of the main island. The southern tip bears a lighthouse perched high above the sea.

A rare sighting of the famous Santorini merman.

The northern tip is the clifftop town of Oia, a 40-minute drive away. Oia is a pretty maze of narrow marble streets and stairs coursing between whitewashed houses. It is renowned for having the best sunset vantage on the island. It was here that Vicky found herself being serenaded for the second time, this time by a bamboo-flute-wielding New Ager with mild resemblance to Hugh Laurie.

Oia.

The romantic streets of Oia.

Our last full day in Santorini was spent boating to the central islands of Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni, formed from smaller little eruptions in more recent times. The terrain of Nea Kameni is black, hilly and sharp, like Mordor. Palea Kameni is famous for its “hot springs”, a little inlet of lukewarm brown water with a seabed of mud that is apparently good for the skin. Highly doubtful, since the “mud” is actually iron oxide (ie. rust) and the “brown” is billions of iron oxide fragments. The highlight was Limmy’s discovery that he could actually swim the 30 metres required to make it from the boat to the springs.

More adventurous poses, Nea Kameni.

And now we’re on a ferry back to Athens, and thence off to Spain. Other memorable moments from Greece:

Getting mildly nauseated on the catamaran from Crete to Santorini, for two reasons: the choppy sea, and the screening of a special on the musical development of Christina Aguilera’s career.

The lightweight Flyingcat 4.

Descending the donkey-poo-lined stairs from the high cliffs of Santorini down to the port. Twenty minutes of careful foot placement.

Meeting Santorini’s most charming bus conductor, a squat, bald old man whose method of keeping the buses on time is to pack the passengers in, shrieking “Quickly! Quickly!” while pushing and muttering in Greek.

As previously stated, but worth reiterating, the culinary brilliance of the gyros.

Limmy enjoying a souvlaki, contrary to facial expression.

June 5-6: Crete

Crete, the largest of Greece’s many islands, possesses a remarkably mountainous landscape that makes overland travel long but visually rewarding, especially if you like spotting mountain goats. It was also once the home of an ancient advanced civilisation known as the Minoans, who built up some sort of city, traded with mainland Greeks (Mycenaeans) for centuries, and then mysteriously vanished, leaving well-preserved footprints including the forerunner of our alphabet.

The Palace at Knossos is the predominant remnant of the Minoan people, comprising a theatre, private rooms and storage chambers surrounding a large central court. Once again, we managed to inadvertently arrive on a free-admission day (thanks, "International Day of Environment"!), which made us less bitter about the rain and the hordes of tour groups.

Minoan frescoes, an early example of "Spot The Difference".

From there we traveled west from the centre of the island to Hania, a coastal town which was in days past a fortress and a port for occupying Italian forces many years ago. It’s now a pretty and peaceful waterfront town with lots of little alleyways, full of friendly folk, cafes, jewellery stores, and consequently, tourists.

Lotsa pots.

Hania's Old Town waterfront. Nice rainbow shot, Vicky.

Hania is the city closest to Samaria Gorge, Europe’s second-largest gorge (18 km). This massive crevice was somehow created by a "small river" running between two mountains. Its very high walls, at times covered in fog, made it spectacular to walk through, partly justifying the 6 am wakeup time and the smelly bus. A baby had vomited on to her mother and the seats, about a third of the way there, prompting the driver, on noticing the smell, to stop the bus and angrily confront the rear passengers (“What smells?”). The joys of motherhood.

Fogtacular!

One of the narrower bits of the Gorge. Note people much smaller than fallen rocks.




A cheap attempt to shrug legal responsibility for any crushings.

Overhanging wall. People walking quickly in foreground.

We were quite proud of ourselves to arrive at the finish point, the beach village of Agia Roumeli, in 4½ hours (which is quite fast) with no blistering or sunburn. The speed was deemed necessary to ensure we made the first ferry out of Agia Roumeli (having previously almost missed the bus to the gorge), which in turn was necessary to ensure we made it back to Hania to pick up our laundry before the 9pm closure, as we were departing for Santorini at 5.30am the next day. When we discovered the first ferry was cancelled, resulting in a possible very-late arrival back at Hania, we were starting to regret the decision to wash 75% of our clothes a day before a major departure.

Pretty, Internet-less Agia Roumeli. Population: 100.

In the absence of Internet or telephone contact, the miracle of global roaming allowed several intercontinental text messages to be made to co-ordinate a fragile backup plan for the collection of our clothes through our helpful hotel owner. However, Limmy, through some clever Amazing Race-type manoeuvering, discovered an earlier ferry (via a different route, not mentioned in the Lonely Planet!) which would connect us with an earlier (and only) bus to Hania – and hopefully, a successful laundry rendezvous.

The only obstacle would be the hundreds of other tourists who had encountered similar dramas with the ferry cancellation. This meant the bus trip back would be critical, for to be left off the bus would mean a) staying the night in a remote beach town, and b) missing both laundry and the next connection. With about 300 passengers on the secret early ferry possibly vying for one of 30 bus seats, Limmy was on personal red alert and mentally rehearsing one of several emergency scenarios to maximise mission success.

On porting, Limmy, fueled more by dreams of being on Amazing Race than any desire to reclaim our clothes, ran from the ferry (to the surprise of the other 299 mostly geriatric passengers) through the small port village (to the surprise of the bemused locals) to the ticket office to ensure seats on the bus. Ultimately, the “critical” bus back to Hania was only a quarter full. The other eight bus passengers, Vicky included, had walked leisurely, leaving Limmy with a mild sense of embarrassment defiantly overshadowed by a deep feeling of triumph. As it turns out, the only other runner was also a Chinese fellow (who had gone to the trouble of doing warm-up exercises on deck for his glory run), conclusively proving that we are the most unnecessarily competitive ethnic group. Note: Limmy beat him.

And so, with clean clothes in possession, we headed to Santorini - winners.

June 2-4: Athens

Greece, the inspiration for so many things in the world we now live in, was the next pitstop for this leg of the race. Athens, its chaotic capital, was our first port of call – a necessarily-brief one, given that we only have nine days to see this diverse and scattered land of statues, saints, sea, soccer and souvlaki. Actually, you can’t really have a land of sea.

The prime attraction of Athens is the Acropolis, the ancient city representing the pinnacle of Greek civilisation, and in modern times, providing the inspiration for the title of Acropolis Now. The scope of the construction is incredible, but the actual appearances are mildly tarnished by the many titanium rods, pulleys and cranes required to maintain and preserve the buildings’ structural and historic integrity. The Parthenon, in particular, looked like a giant game of Mouse Trap. Still, nice views from on high. On the first Sunday of the month, admission to the Acropolis is free – fortuitously for us.

Later that night, we indulged in yet more opera – a very avant-garde production of Carmen, part of the Hellenic Festival (similar to the Melbourne Festival?). The performance was held in the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a Roman-type amphitheatre that is part of the Acropolis complex but only open to the public for performances. Despite the cool open air, the crowdedness (having non-reserved seats, we had to sit illegally on the marble partitions) and the lack of English, it was excellent, beautifully staged and sung. Carmen herself was played by – shock! – a black woman (possibly the lead singer of the M People) who at times wore hot pink and fluoro orange. There was a cast of at least a hundred, including several deliberately naughty children, lots of black-clad Spanish dancers, motorbikes, an open-top convertible, and a conductor with such enthusiasm he appeared to be having an incredibly-well-controlled seizure.

With only two exits, surely the greatest fire hazard in the Acropolis.

Literally a cast of hundreds.

The night was topped off by another uniquely Hellenic experience – the post-midnight souvlaki (or “gyros”, to use the correct term). In fact we managed to visit what were purported to be Athens’ two best souvlaki joints, located directly opposite one another, in the middle of tourist ground zero (Vicky was unwillingly serenaded during her meal). The gyros is a €1.80 (A$3) miniature souvlaki which sometimes contains hot chips (yes!) in addition to spit-roast meat, yoghurt, paprika and vegies. It is possibly the perfect midnight food, perhaps explaining the lack of visible KFCs in Athens.

Earlier in the day we had wandered through the Athens flea market, a Sunday tradition. It is incredible to see the kinds of things people think they can sell, and the haphazard manner in which they are displayed in their stalls. Amongst the treasures on offer: musical instruments of every kind and shape, all kinds of religious iconography, sew-on swastikas, medieval weapons, and surgical and gynaecological equipment.

Note mace, front left, on table. A perfect wedding gift.

Please do not take junk from middle of pile!

Essentials for the DIY surgeon.

Spot the rusty speculum.

Our visit to the National Archaeological Museum was another opportunity to see the countless treasures amassed from civilisations past. Humanoid figurines from Mycenaeans and Cycladians from the 2^nd millennium BC; statues tracing the development of sculpture in stone and bronze from Hellenistic to Classical eras; and actual arrowheads from the Battle of Thermopylae, the inspiration for the film 300, were among the riches.

The famous Cycladian "Man Eating Two Icecreams At The Same Time".

"The Olympic Spirit" - bronze and Limmy.

Finally we boarded our ferry, the Knossos Palace, for our overnight journey to Crete – only to discover it actually was the size of a palace. With eight floors, lifts and an escalator, a disco, cinema, several bars and restaurants, a “dog’s village”, and a shopping area, it is a floating hotel. A nice way to finish Athens.

Dogs love village-style living.

May 28-June 1: Budapest

Finally, a taste of continental Europe: Budapest! Its peaceful tree-lined stone boulevards bring to mind Paris, albeit with slightly less fashion sense.

Make that significantly less.

The House of Terror Museum gave us a sobering introduction into Hungary’s history, focusing mainly on the “double occupation” – first the Nazis, who invaded Hungary in 1944 to harness the country’s resources for its war efforts, then the Soviets, post-WWII, who crushed any hopes for true independence by backing a powerful pro-Communist regime. The atrocities committed by the police and authorities during these years included deportations, anti-Semitism, forced secularisation of the church, and intimidation of political opponents. The basement exhibits of dungeons, prison cells and execution rooms, and the videos of Hitler juxtaposed with footage of piles of corpses being bulldozed into graves, were shocking. An emotional experience.

Some of the victims of the secret police.

Puccini’s Tosca, at the lavish Hungarian State Opera House, was our first taste of opera. Sadly the Magyar subtitles didn’t help us with the Italian lyrics, but fortunately a previously-downloaded Wikipedia summary helped us follow the saga. More intriguing was the behaviour of the cast. At the end of each of the three acts, each lead actor emerges after the curtain falls to receive their due applause. Does this normally happen at the opera? A bit self-indulgent? The lady who played Tosca received three ovations (non-standing) and two bouquets of flowers. Bonus!

Budapest’s prime place of worship is the Basilica of St Stephen, a lovely gold-and-marble creation, and the home of St Stephen’s right hand. The Holy Right Hand (actual name) has been venerated by the Pope and has its own chapel dedicated to it, and for the bargain price of 100 forint (70 cents) you can see the shrivelled relic lit up within its bejewelled home for two minutes. For those unable to afford the privilege, here is a photo.

Basilica of St Stephen. Bonus points if you can translate the Latin.

In an effort to quench our passionate thirst for medical knowledge, we paid a visit to the Semmelweis Medical History Museum, which traces the progress of medicine back to the days when wearing an anklet to cure colon cancer was a good idea. Apparently there is a patron saint of toothache sufferers (Apollonia, the only saint with his own pliers).

The hills of Budapest rest on mineral springs, and there are several old baths in the city which siphon steaming mineral water from below the earth for the benefit of tourists and locals alike. Gellert Baths is Hungary’s most ornate bath-house, featuring wall-to-wall blue tiling, cathedral-like high ceilings, and pools of varying temperatures. We won’t forget the combination of the spooky 40-50ºC steam room (spooky = silent, middle-aged men in Speedos, like ghosts, barely visible, because of the thick steam), immediately followed by the 8ºC plunge pool. Also mildly regrettable was our decision to bring our hotel’s hand towels.

Vicky’s birthday, on our final full day in Hungary, was a festive day of gift-giving and general touristry, culminating in a celebratory dinner in a somewhat-nice restaurant. Hoping to end the night with a small, discreet, surprise, Limmy secretly requested a birthday candle atop the shared dessert – baked ice-cream (which is incidentally not as good as it sounds). The “candle” turned out to be possibly the largest sparkler in Europe, producing a brilliant, attention-grabbing halo of light which blinded all adjacent alfresco diners. Limmy wisely turned down the offer of “birthday singing” from the same waitress.

Vicky with complimentary orange blanket provided by restaurant. Note oversize half-finished cocktail in foreground.

Other highlights and noteworthy happenstances:

Crossing the Danube three times on three different bridges.

Budapest’s rich treasury of statues, ripe for tomfoolery.

Castle Hill, home of the National Gallery (nice paintings), the Fishermans Bastion (great views) and the Siklo (world’s shortest cable car ride), and many more green horsemen statues.

Watching a Budapest cyclist miraculously survive a hit-and-run from a car running a red light. Not an achievement as such.

Limmy’s desperate shopping blitz at West End City Centre Mall, the Chadstone of Budapest, the day before Vicky’s birthday.

A bizarre infestation of hundreds of tiny mosquitos in our apartment on our last night, forcing us to sleep in the foyer of our room. Plague?

Limmy with orange drink of his own.