Sacre Bleu!

It was dark when I arrived in Paris. Since I hadn't had time to plot my escape from the airport, I opted to bite the bullet and take a taxi to my hotel. After waiting in line in the plastic-enclosed walkway, I was ushered up to a small black sedan. Out creaked the oldest taxi driver in all of Paris. He stood about as high as my shoulder and wasn't a day under 86. Dubiously, I showed him the address, and after several reassuring hand gestures I threw my bag in the trunk and got in. 

The traffic was horrendous and as we waded through the red tail lights I could hear the driver swearing furiously under his breath. Once he realized I spoke some French he launched into a full-blown diatribe about Parisian drivers. I nodded along and then we sank into silence. About 30 minutes into the drive he eased over to an off ramp in order to park and retrieve the atlas from the trunk. Apparently he had never been to that hotel before, let alone that part of town. After one look at the microscopic font and the thickness of his glasses, I grabbed the map, found the correct page, and turned it back over to my fearless driver. 

Reassured that we were headed in the right direction, he found an exit of the right name, then a boulevard that was in the ball park. After we a stopped to check a road sign, we hailed a local taxi and affirmed the correct alley was just around the corner. We both threw up our hands in triumph at the sight of the hotel's illuminated sign. There was much mutual congratulating as we unloaded my bag and bade each other good night and safe travels. 

The next morning I found my way to the train station and onto the correct train. 2 hours later I disembarked at the quiet little station of Montbard, and was met by a gentleman from the barge, waiting to whisk me away to my family. They were all waiting either on the barge or the lock it was passing through, aunts and uncles and mother and grandparents waving and hallooing like I wouldn't recognize them otherwise.  The last time I'd seen them all was at a Mariners game in Seattle, and now here they all were in the French countryside. Let the wild rumpus begn. 

A Greek State of Mind

It's amazing how fast a week goes by. Even though the pace of life is generally slower in the Greek islands, somehow time just flies.

Another trip has come and gone. At the beginning of the trip you meet a group of people who are complete strangers and by the end you know all about their children, how they react to stress, and what makes them happy. You all share this intense experience, and then it's done. For the most part people go their separate ways and it all fades into memories and photo albums. The ephemeral quality of this community doesn't make it any less real or valuable, it just leaves you slightly breathless and disoriented. It takes me a couple days to find my feet again. 

A week ago we were hiking down the Samaria Gorge and I had the pleasant experience of finishing the hike in full daylight, a first for me. Everyone was feeling strong and energized, so I got to fall back and take in the scenery, including the rabbits and quails tucked into backyards on the way into Agia Roumeli.  We saw plenty of kri-kri, and made sure not to feed them. 

Another day brought us back to Loutro, one of my favorite places. Conditions were absolutely beautiful for paddling and we made it to the port town of Sfakia for lunch.  In Loutro there are several restaurants lined up along the shore that all serve grilled meats. They have several spits turning at all times, rounds of pork, whole chickens, and goats with the heads still attached. The aroma is mouthwatering and wafts across the water at night. 

We had good weather all the way to Plakias, and then things changed. The wind came up, clouds rolled in, and the second to last morning was blustery indeed. The paddlers experienced just how fast things can build on the Libyan Sea. Everyone arrived at our stop in Palm Beach in one piece, but that was the last paddling of the trip. The sea was a mess of whitecaps with winds howling in from the north and rain squalls blowing through. Our last night in Gallini was punctuated by torrential rain showers and brilliant rainbows, as was the next morning. It was a beautiful way to say goodbye to Crete. 

It's hard to say goodbye to Crete, with its lovely people, amazing scenery, and incredible food. I'll be going back every chance I get. 

Island Life

I'm sitting in the hotel lobby in the tiny town of Loutro, watching the topaz water and listening to the resident parrot meow and whistle. This picturesque little village is inhabited in the summer only and basically serves as accommodations for tourists in on the ferry or by foot along the coastal trail. There's no better place to sit back and ponder great things. 

To get here we started on the south central coast in Matala.  I'm one of two guides for a week long inn-to-inn kayaking trip on the Greek island of Crete. Our seven guests are from both coasts of the U.S. and Canada, and include a doctor, a lawyer, and two psychiatrists (sounds like a bad joke).  It's definitely a working vacation - the food is amazing, the scenery is beautiful, and the days are long. In addition to hiking or kayaking all day, I get to do massage as well. Tonight the table is set up on the roof of the hotel overlooking Loutro. We'll be here tomorrow was well, the continue our way down the coast. 

The first day of the trip we visited the ruins at Knossos. It's a Minoan palace built by King Minos of legend. It would have been nice to see the Minotaur because that would have meant fewer tourists. The site was excavated and then reconstructed according to one man's vision in the late 1800s, with garishly painted frescoes and concrete columns. It gives a hint at its previous splendor. 

The next day, after paddling to two neighboring beaches, we hike the bluff above Matala to watch the sun fall into the sea. The island you can see is Paxamadia, and according to legend it's the place where Daedalus and Icarus were imprisoned by King Minos. It's fascinating how chock-full of mythology Crete is. It's home to the cave where Zeus was born, the Minotaur's labyrinth, and numerous other legendary spots. I still haven't figured out exactly how such spots are determined. 

After leaving Matala we drive to the north coast, then climb up the rocky spine of the island to the head of the Samaria Gorge, the longest in Europe. The 10 mile hike turns into something of an ordeal when people aren't prepared to lose 4,000 ft of elevation over rough, rocky terrain. For the second time I ended up guiding people out in the dark. The look on their faces when we reach the seaside village of Agia Roumeli is the definition of relief. 

Now here we are in Loutro, taking a breath and putting our feet up. It's as beautiful as I remember, although there are lots more people wearing hiking boots and carrying packs. There's a national trail that runs along Crete's south coast that seems to be garnering more attention, particularly among Europeans. It has the feeling of a place that's just being discovered and is soon doomed for a ranking in the Lonely Plantet guide book.