Now is the time...
Wednesday, October 8 Kesan to Tekirdag, Turkey“Now is the time to unite the soul with the world. Now is the time to see the sunlight dancing as one with the shadows.” The poet, philosopher and religious mystic, Rumi“Troops on the streets, curfews for the first time in 22 years, protests in almost 30 cities and state buildings attacked - the situation is dangerous and escalating fast.” BBC News, October 8, 2014 regarding TurkeyIs it coincidence? Is it bad luck or good luck? Is it fate? Is it just divine irony playing itself out? Yesterday I posted that I had finally entered Turkey after almost five weeks of cycling through both Italy and Greece. It felt like a monumental relief to me to have reached this milestone. It was a wonderful day cycling with other Turkish cyclists and enjoying the grace-filled gifts of the day.
Who would have guessed that while I was crossing the border things were beginning to erupt around this country? This morning I woke to the sounds of Islamic prayer being sung from the tower across the city. As I ate at the hotel in Kesan, the TV was replaying images of protests, tear gas, and riots. I knew that at least part of it was related to Turkey as I recognized the city of Ankara in the subtitles. I went upstairs to my computer so that I could confirm just what and where this was happening. It was all Turkey. The ISIS attack upon the Kurdish city of Kobane, Syria had ignited Kurdish people in Turkey and their sympathizers against the government.I erupted into tears. Not because it might put my pilgrimage in jeopardy or cut it short. Not because it makes my journey more complicated and possibly more risky. But, because I have spent five weeks opening myself up to the beauty of my surroundings, the generosity of the people I meet, and my own inner emotional landscape. Opening, opening, and more opening. Being vulnerable to whatever gift each day may bring. Living in the now moment. So how could I not erupt into tears as I felt the pain and violence of what was unfolding before me? How could my heart not ache as I watched people tear each other apart? I have allowed myself to become vulnerable and it hurts now.
And what an unbelievable and almost surreal contrast to what I experienced not too far down the road one hour later. I was just out of town painfully negotiating a section of road that really required a mountain bike due to the deterioration of the shoulder. Construction vehicles and crews in their fluorescent vests were busy hauling away some of the old pavement and further down the road, repaving it. I gritted my teeth and bounced along doing the best I could to avoid a minor mishap in a pile of gravel or broken, cavernous pavement.Not far up ahead a group of workers were settling into the grass supporting trays of prepared lunch. As I neared, one man lifted a half loaf of bread and waved me over. I was glad to accept the offer. Before I knew it they had a full tray ready for as well—a half loaf of bread, a soup that seemed to have a pea base, a pile of rice that was imposing, and a dish that included some sort of meat patties, potatoes and a sauce. It was more than I wanted or needed, but I dug in.I ate what I could. While cycling I like to eat easily digestible food and save the heavier meals for the night. I enjoyed all the soup, made a pretty good dent in the bread, and picked away at the meat and potatoes. I watched as some of the men wandered off to scrape their plates clean from their half-eaten trays too. I stopped eating and was hoping for a signal that I could do the same thing. But, the looks told me I was supposed to keep eating. My original inviter was trying to guide me with nods of his head, pointing to my food and lifting his fingers to his mouth to indicate, “Eat. Eat.”Another man to the left of me was even more persistent and that is when I began to figure out the puzzle. While the second man was pressuring me to eat all of my food, the first man was shaking his head and giving me permission not to eat it all. Finally, I got it. He was trying to tell me that I had to eat the meat, but all else could be discarded. I finished the four little patties on my tray and he immediately picked up my tray and saved me from the stricter dictates of the second man. Afterwards, he pointed to a flock of sheep and goats thirty feet from us and then put his fingers in his mouth saying, “That is what we just ate.” It was clear that meat was sacred and not to be wasted.
I spent nearly an hour there with the ten or so men who took care of me. The second man wanted to know about my marital status and my earring and then finally spun his hands in the universal sign for “cycling” asking if he could ride my bike. Generally, that would be off-limits. I am a little protective of my bikes and this one is my only transportation in a foreign country. Little problems become a big deal very quickly. But, it was the right thing to do and fit the spirit of sharing what we had. We all had a good laugh as he attempted to ride the heavily-loaded bike through the gravel, but I think it was a success since he didn’t fall. Afterwards, he rubbed his butt to indicate that the thin seat was none too comfortable and we all shared another good laugh.I drank three cups of tea with them and took pictures. Then the original inviter who had waved me over held out his arms. We hugged and he guided me through a proper Turkish embrace left cheek to left cheek and then right cheek to right cheek. The other men laughed with appreciation and delight. We didn’t share more than about two words in common—American and tea (chai), but he became my friend. I will always remember the kind way that he led me through the meal protecting me from the more critical eyes who were watching me. Thank you, my friend!I would not have missed that opportunity for anything, but I did pay for it 45 minutes down the road. The meat sat heavily in my stomach and as I churned the pedals repeatedly over a series of rolling hills I felt a little queasy. It eventually passed, but it was a very uncomfortable period of demanding more from my stomach in the form of determination while my stomach was trying to demand a respite for digestion.
It was a particularly hard day of cycling outside of that. I have to admit that I saw very little of the scenery today. My eyes were focused for most of the day on a little square patch about six feet in front of me. With the exception of a very short two kilometer section a consistent headwind that shifted from hitting me between the 10 o’clock and the 12 o’clock position dogged me all day and eventually demoralized me. I went into an emotionally numb zone after four hours of it and just inched my way along knowing the eventually I would arrive at my destination back on the coast in Tekirdag, Turkey. I did, but only after seven hours of riding that would usually just take me four and half hours.I am hoping to reach Istanbul tomorrow. I already have a reservation at a hostel right in Old Town where the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia are located. But, it will mean at least 80 miles of riding, including the possibility that that headwind will still be there and negotiating my way into Istanbul—which by the way, I decided to do on bike after finding a website of another cyclist who decided to do all cyclists a favor by publishing the safest and most beautiful route into the city. I had hoped to get further today, but it just wasn’t to be.
Back to the other issue about the political and religious environment. I had a good coffee meeting with Esen, a local cyclist and outdoorswoman, who helped me interpret what was taking place and what areas it will affect the most. So far I still feel good about my route and my plan and feel confident that I am not riding into harm’s way. However, things are very tenuous and tensions are high and I am watching developments every day and will plan accordingly.“Now is the time to unite the soul with the world,” writes Rumi. I like that, but I can’t help but to cry for the world right now, for the Turkish people, for the Middle East, for all of us.
And then...the sun
Tuesday, October 7 Alexandropoulis, Greece to Kesan, TurkeyIt was as if an army of angels had been sent down to aid me. It started almost immediately as I began the day. I made my post, “Thanks for listening…” and then opened Facebook one last time. In there was a message from one of my contacts in Istanbul. Hearing that my ferry plans had not materialized as I had hoped, she sent me bus schedules from Kesan (where I am staying tonight) to Istanbul. It just felt good that, at least for the moment, someone else was also trying to put some of the pieces together.
I packed up my portable house, paid my hotel bill and began loading my bike in front of the hotel lobby. Just as I was finishing a man who looked to be in his late 70’s entered my space laughing and trying to share the source of his laughter with me. Next to the hotel was a camping store (sort of like Army Surplus). In front of the store, but hidden, was a caged parrot. I had heard it squawking from my room. Apparently as he was walking by the parrot whistled at him the way a flirt might whistle at a woman walking by (the parrot hadn’t been taught appropriate manners!). The man had searched for the source of the whistle (maybe even hoping some female was flirting with him), but when he discovered it was a parrot, he couldn’t stop laughing and just had to share the moment. I was the lucky target.Of course, I was not the best victim as I had only learned two Greek words in the entire trip. But, we played charades for five minutes. He pretended to be a parrot and I parroted (pun intended) his movements to let him know I knew what he was talking about. He whistled and I whistled. Then he saw my bike and wondered if I might be French. I let him know that I was from America and he started laughing again and pretended to swim wondering how I got from there to here. I smiled and started flapping my arms as if to say, “No silly. I took the plane.” We patted each other on the back, him still laughing and shaking his head at so much delight in the space of a few minutes. As he left he just said, “Good, America, good.”
I rolled out of town and found myself whistling and singing my own silly compositions. For the first time in a number of days the sun was out and while it was not yet warm, the chill in the morning seemed to be missing. I had just gotten past the city limits when I saw three cyclists stopped on the side of the road. I quickly stopped like a dog who had spotted his own breed. They were all from Istanbul for an overnight cycling adventure. They had parked at the border, ridden to Alexandropoulis, ate seafood and drank beer like me, and were making their way back to the border and their car when I chanced upon them.I took off before them, but like my ride with Tom we started leapfrogging. I stopped for a picture and they passed me. I caught up and put some distance on them on the downhills (gravity can do a lot with an extra 45 pounds), stopped for another picture, they passed me up, and now I think you get the picture. Eventually, we ended up pretty much riding together to the border. We attempted to stop for coffee in the small town of Antheia, but couldn’t find anything open. We checked out one place that had tables, but no activity. It turned out that they usually were open, but they were preparing for a funeral luncheon. The man said, “Wait, give me 5 minutes.” Five minutes later he came out with Greek coffee for all of us and asked that we accept it as his gift to us.
He and I discovered that we had something in common. I lived in the States and he had lived in New Jersey for just a few months before having his request for permanency denied. Then somehow the conversation shifted as we had Turkish, Greek and American fellows all standing together. With sadness he shared, “Greek, Turkish, we’re all the same. But, our politicians separate us. I have Syrian friends. I don’t know if they are dead or alive. I can’t find out. No communication between countries. The war, not good.” We took pictures, shared Facebook accounts, and hugged. He attended to his arriving guests and we got back on our bicycles.And through all of this the sun was out.
The four of us continued to ride, but a new spirit was emerging among us. Now when I stopped for pictures they all stopped with me and we traded off taking snapshots of all of us in front of churches and under signs indicating how far Turkey was. We hung together in a group, me surging ahead on the downhills, they putting a gap between me and them on the uphills. At the border we parted ways and only had one last encounter a few miles down the road where they caught up to me in their car and we gave each other one last thumbs up and “See you in Istanbul!” cheers.The border crossing was much easier than I anticipated, but more involved than I first expected. I went through an initial booth much like the fruit inspection stops going into California. The man asked, “Where are you from?” “America,” was my reply and I added that I was cycling through Italy, Greece and now Turkey.” “Good for you,” he replied and handed me my passport and encouraged me to go as I stood there thinking there must be more to it than that. There was. I just didn’t know it.
I saw a Turkey sign and wanted to get a picture, but men in army fatigues with military rifles were standing right there. I asked if I could take a picture of the sign and they nodded without cracking a smile. I took the picture and then the first one asked me, “You want another? You on Facebook?” I indeed did want another picture and I couldn’t believe he was offering to stand by the Turkey sign with his rifle slung over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure his superiors would approve of this kind of PR. But, he offered and I took the picture.I wanted to pass on the moment to my Facebook friends so I stopped on the bridge to make my post. Apparently I stood too long and another man with a rifle yelled to me and used his hand to indicate that I needed to move along. As I made my way over the rest of the bridge I saw why. I hadn’t finished crossing the border. In the next half hour I went through four more booths, each time the man in the booth wanting my passport and one time confirming my valid visa.And through all of this the sun was out.
Tonight I am in Kesan (pronounced Kay-shun), eating cookies and other sweets after a delicious smorgasboard of food that left me still yearning for more. I might be getting the hang of this crossing the border thing. After a shower I went to work on getting Turkish lira (that's money, not a Turkish delight), finding the photo shop where I am meeting a fellow cyclist tomorrow, and getting data for my phone now that I am in Turkey. Funny thing about this last issue. It took five days before Greece caught up with me and terminated my phone plan because I was no longer in Italy. It took Turkey about 100 yards. I crossed the border and immediately lost connection with the outside world. The good news is that what had taken me a day or two to do before, I did in 90 minutes. I am starting to know the drill!I still have decisions to make about how to get into Istanbul safely. The bus may be an option. Also, my new Istanbul cycling friends said that it isn’t a problem getting into Istanbul on bike. That is the first time I have heard that. It does give me hope that if it comes to that it is possible. My hesitation, however, is that they may be speaking from the experience of living there and knowing how to get around after much trial and error. I have one shot at this and have to get it right the first time! But, I am less anxious than I was before about it.And through all of this the sun was out.
Thanks for listening...
Monday, October 6 Komotini to Alexandropoulis(written Tuesday morning)I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was in tough place right now. I hinted at the end of my post yesterday that I found myself searching for planned tours through Turkey. I wasn’t sure what that was about and I spent most of the day searching for its source. I finally landed on the fact that the night before I was surprised to find that I had miscalculated some mileage. Over two weeks ago I took a good look at the two major legs after Thessaloniki. I estimated about 450 kilometers to Tekirdag to catch a ferry to Istanbul and another 420 kilometers to Konya.
When I rode out of Thessaloniki, I could feel my legs driving me homeward. Both of these sections seemed reasonably short. I still had a significant amount of research to determine how best to negotiate the terrain between Istanbul and Turkey but at 420 kilometers (250 miles) I felt like I had the five days it would take in my willpower savings account.But, I made a little error and it has thrown me. Somehow I got my kilometers and miles mixed up. The actual distance is 700 kilometers between Istanbul and Konya (I hate even writing the number!). I had calculated the miles at 420 and then started calling those kilometers. By the time I had done a double calculation that 700 kilometers was down to just 250 miles. “What a snap! I can ride that with my hands tied behind my back!” I thought.At the core of this is my need to start coasting into Konya. I am starting to show some signs of mental exhaustion by the daily move from one place to another, determining the best route, finding lodging and locating places where I can eat and buy food. Once I get on the bike every day I am in paradise. I love the cycling. I am completely in my element on the bike. But, I am concerned about arriving in Konya exhausted and not able to actually have enough energy left to fully enjoy the experience.
On top of that I discovered last night that Tekirdag, where I planned to take a ferry to Istanbul, doesn’t have ferries. How that happened, I don’t know. I remember looking at my computer screen at a map of the ferry routes into Istanbul and two weeks ago that ferry was there, I swear! Now it’s gone. Tonight in Kesan, Turkey (assuming I get there) I plan to sit down with a local bike enthusiast and see if she has ideas about how to get into the heart of Istanbul. No one, not even cyclists recommend cycling into Istanbul. Train, bus, back of a pickup? I’m open.Having said all that, I am not letting those uncertainties derail what I am doing now. Today, I plan to cross the border into Turkey and enjoy a fairly leisurely 80 kilometer (50 miles) ride into Kesan. After that I have some rethinking to do, but before me today is another cool fall-like day that will take me from the coast of Greece to inland Turkey. I am actually looking forward to what kind of questions I’ll be asked at the border.
Yesterday was also a fairly low mileage, relaxed day. There was a little climbing and a section where the quieter road fed onto the busier freeway. But, the shoulder was at least eight feet wide and newly paved and turned out to be more enjoyable than I would have expected with speeding traffic and big trucks passing every ten to fifteen seconds.One of the striking shifts in the last two days has been that I began to see more spires from mosques after Kavala. At first it was the occasional spire off in the distance in a medium-sized town. Then I began to notice that there were an equal number of Greek Orthodox steeples mixed in with mosque spires. The pattern yesterday was that the smallest villages had mosques and the larger towns had a mix of the two. I have to admit that I was feeling cautious about taking pictures of the mosques in the rural villages. I’m a bit of an oddity going through these quieter, remote villages.
We live in volatile time and I definitely look Western in my spandex tights and fluorescent windbreaker. I am usually mistaken for being German. Yesterday as I rode through one village an older man yelled out, “Auf wiedersehen” and I wasn’t sure if it was “Goodbye. Don’t look back” or “Goodbye until we meet again.” I don’t know exactly how my picture-taking is being perceived, but I do find myself being careful. It’s probably fine, but I think about a bearded Middle-Eastern man taking pictures of a synagogue or a public building in America and wonder about that one unstable, angry person for whom that would be an offense. I am just watching to make sure I am acting appropriately in someone else’s home.The highlight of the day was the two hour stretch I took in the early evening to stroll very casually around the port where the fishing boats, cargo ships and ferries were docked. Much of the day my head flirted back and forth from being present to the landscape around me to the decisions that I needed to make about the rest of the pilgrimage. But, during this sacred window of time I was able to let future uncertainties dissolve away.
First, I sat down on a very uncomfortable metal park bench. It wasn’t long before my head was drooping and I was fast asleep oblivious to the stares of those passing by. After being startled awake, I then made my way over to the deeper parts of the port where the bigger boats were moored. I sat on the edge of the concrete slabs and watched as fish periodically surfaced for small bugs. To my right six fishermen were casting their poles into the water and displaying a rhythm I had never seen before. The casts were long—nearly 100 meters out. After casting they immediately began this physically demanding dance of pulling the pole back in hard and fast in a wide sweeping arc, then reeling in the extra line, and repeating this over and over again until their line was back on shore.
It didn’t make sense to me. No fish would be able to follow the speed at which they were yanking the line back in. I could only guess that they were going for really large fish--small sharks, tuna, etc.--that would have the speed and the power to charge toward the speeding bait. Only later as I strolled the length of the concrete barriers that made up the port did I understand. They were snagging fish. There was no bait, but just a large three-barbed hook that when pulled hard and fast enough would snag a fish like a rake would a leaf. I watched as a few of them snagged fish and reeled them in.It was a wonderful two hours (I was only aware of the time when I looked at my iPhone later) as I watched the sun go down in the west, the fishermen reel in unlucky fish, other strollers enjoying the solitude of the port barriers, and a brief time when I had no agenda but to enjoy the time before me. I followed this with a seafood dinner of calamari, some sort of bony whitefish that burned more calories picking out bones than I gained, a very tasty salad covered in pomegranate seeds, and, of course, a beer. The calamari, though, was a taste sensation to remember. This wasn’t like calamari I have had in the States that resembles a deep-fried rubber band. These were thick half-inch slices of oceanic squid with long juicy tentacles lightly fried so as not to hide the calamari taste. Wow! It was great.
By the way, thanks for listening this morning. I am actually in a little better place than when I started this. It’s hard to keep perspective when I am mostly having conversations with myself. I have to play the client and the counselor all at the same time and sometimes the client part of me won’t open up and, at other times, the counselor part of me walks out in frustration. It’s easier when I can just talk and you can listen. So thanks for being there.I am not going to say that I am out of being in a tough place. But, I can say that I have a belief that today will be good again in unexpected ways and that tonight I’ll figure things out. That is, by the way, the nature of a pilgrimage. It has to unfold one leg, one day, one hour and sometimes, one pedal stroke at a time. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t sometimes hard and frustrating.Peace, peace, peace, always, peace…
Nuthin' Really!
Sunday, October 5 Kavala to Komotini(written Monday morning)You know that common scene where a teen comes home from school and his mother asks him, “What did you do today” and the teen mumbles something that sounds like, “Nuthin’ really.” I sort of feel that way about yesterday, but not in a bad way. It was actually a really nice day. I am just not sure what is worth reporting on.
I got a pretty late start in the morning as I enjoyed a good breakfast at the hotel and wrote my blog. I wasn’t feeling any real urgency about the day because Xanthi was just 55 kilometers away and the next real stop after that was Komotini, another 55 kilometers further. I thought it was most likely that I would only get to Xanthi as the coastal winds blowing west to east had limited my miles for two days in row. Komotini would be a gift, but I wasn’t going to force the issue.As I was leaving Kavala I made a turn one block too early (thinking it was the route on the water rather than the main highway) and ended up climbing up a cobblestoned-paved street through Old Town. I just smiled at the thought that I would always have this memory (as long as it lasts!) of bouncing my way along between shops that had histories centuries old. At the top I visited another Greek Orthodox Church and took a little time to enjoy the view from up there.
I began making my way east on mostly flat roads. There are mountains in this part of Greece, but they are set back from the coastline sometimes only a few hundred yards and, at other times, a few kilometers where farmers have taken advantage of the more workable terrain. I stopped for a quick pastry and juice at another roadside service station/bar/café that seemed close to shutting down for the season. That is becoming a common theme once one leaves the larger cities.As I consumed my treats I saw another cyclist loaded down with gear pass me going the same direction. A few minutes later I took off hoping that I might track him down in the coming kilometers. I kept a pretty steady pace without pushing so hard that I would regret it later. I was just starting to get discouraged that he was just opening the gap that was already there when a long straight stretch allowed me to spot him just a few hundred meters ahead. Thankfully, he stopped to look at his map and I caught him.
Tom is a young man from Australia who is on the final leg of a two year journey by bike. He and a friend left Australia and began in India where he described a country that overwhelms the senses with the beauty and the tragedy of life. Over the next two years he traveled through much of Asia, stopped in a couple of countries and worked for spell and then decided to finish this long adventure cycling through Europe, the Balkans, Greece and ending in Istanbul.Tom and I enjoyed most of the day together talking about politics, religion, American and Western culture, belief, atheism, agnosticism, systems theory, human geography and raisins and cashews. We developed a little pattern in our riding. I was just slightly stronger (or actually I might have been fresher. He had already cycled 40 kilometers when we met up) and since I liked taking pictures I would stop take my pictures and then spend two minutes catching up to him. Just as I would catch up I would see another sight that needed to be recorded and we kept this up for much of the afternoon.
We crossed paths with three walkers who were on pilgrimage to Istanbul. One had been walking for 15 month now and was planning to continue on to Jerusalem. We crossed a land bridge that was definitely my favorite cycling of the day. For about a half hour we cycled on a thin piece of land that had separated the sea. From a aerial map it looks like the sea had sprung a large leak and created a massive lake. This section had a beautiful white and red-roofed monastery that sat out on a small island. We watched as large-billed pelicans flew over, startled herons as we rode by and enjoyed flocks of birds lazily rocking back and forth in the water.I think Tom and I inspired each other. We quickly rode through Xanthi and I began to see that I just might have enough in my legs to reach Komotini. Tom was pushing on too, but didn’t feel too much pressure as he was primarily stealth camping and would just stop when he felt ready to. About 15 kilometers from Komotini that’s what Tom did. He pulled up alongside me and said, “This looks good. I imagine we’ll see each other on the road tomorrow.” I took his picture and then ground out the last few kilometers (in what seemed like a stiff headwind or maybe without Tom there it was just harder).
I have plans to meet with the organizer of a bike club in Kesan,Turkey who can hopefully help me plan the rest of the trip through Turkey. It’s about 150 kilometers by bike there which is more than I want to do in one day. I plan to ride the shorter 70 kilometers into Alexandropolous today and then cross the Turkish border tomorrow.One last note: I found myself looking at organized tours of Turkey this morning that shuttle me around the sites I want to see and visit while leaving my bike in Istanbul. Not sure yet what that is about—tiredness, wanting to make sure I enjoy Turkey, fears of the unknown, a yearning for home? I plan to ride today and let some of that settle and see where it comes out.Ha! I surprised myself. I really did have something to say.
Preparing for "Sufi-land"
Saturday, October 4 Ofrinio to Kavala(written Sunday morning)I had originally planned to stay in Kavala one extra night so that I could ride up to Philippi, just a few kilometers north of here (and skyward, too!), to visit another of the sites that the apostle Paul had established one of the early Christian communities. If this had been a traditional Christian pilgrimage it would be a must see. But, this pilgrimage is from Rome to Rumi (from the head of the Church to the heart of mysticism).
I only have so much energy left and, at this point, I want to reserve it so that I can fully immerse myself in the rich religious world that Turkey offers. Istanbul is really where West meets East. I get excited even writing this. I will have moved from the Roman Catholic culture of Italy to the Greek Orthodox culture of Greece and then be introduced to the Eastern Orthodox Church in Istanbul. But, that is just the beginning. Culturally, I am imagining that Islam will likely be the religion of the majority of the people.Yesterday, my eyes feasted on the picture postcard perfect scenery around me while my head and heart were beginning to prepare for the journey ahead. I only rode just a little less than forty miles, but a westerly coastal wind made it feel double that. The ride was stunningly beautiful, though, as the sea was often anywhere from thirty feet to a hundred feet to my right. I loved hearing the waves crash in as I rode along and feasted on the simple pleasure of watching fishermen (and a few women) casting their sea-worthy poles into the water for prizes that I could only imagine.
I had one delightful stretch where hotels and restaurants lined the pavement on both sides. Had it been peak season I would have been fighting traffic and pedestrians, I am sure. But, the area was largely deserted and I had much of the road to myself arcing my way around hillside curves while enjoying the same views of the bay and red-roofed villages that the posh hotel patrons also enjoyed.At one point I was given an unexpected gift. A tractor slowly passed me traveling no more than five kph faster. I quickly found the draft behind and coasted along for ten or fifteen minutes letting the wind that he was generating drag me behind him. When he looked back he was startled, then gave me the thumbs up, as if to say, “It’s cool!” After that I could tell that he was choosing a path on the road that avoided the worst of the potholes and slowed down when there were ruts in the road. What a nice guy!
Speaking of that, the politeness and hospitality of the people is noticeable. On more than one occasion I have tried to make it easy on the coffee clerks by ordering at the bar and waiting for my coffee. Repeatedly, they have almost taken me by the elbow, and said, “Sit. Sit. Sit. Let me take care of you.” I can feel that my attempts to make it easy on them is stealing something from them and they won’t stand for it. They enjoy and take pride in their hospitality. I have been given free candy bars from store clerks and two nights ago I asked for a plastic fork for my baklava to take back to my hotel room. She didn’t have one, but gave me one of the regular silverware and refused to let me pay for it—all this for less than two euros.
Increasingly, my mind is turning toward home—not so much that I am missing what is before me, but I am noticing the yearning. A few days ago, a remake of a Storm Large song came on in a café. Storm Large is a local Portland product who wrote the powerful, funny, and startlingly honest one woman play, Crazy Enough. I saw her perform it. Hearing the song put me right back in my Portland community. Later that day I was reading Life is a Wheel and he mentioned German chocolate cake. For years I have asked the people in my life to bake a German chocolate cake for my birthday. I immediately yearned for home. Today, is the baby shower for the grandchild who is expected in about two months time. I ache just a little knowing that I made the decision to take this pilgrimage and miss celebrating with my family. But, I sent flowers to let them know of my presence and to relieve the ache a little.
I stayed last night in Kavala, a town small enough to enjoy easily, but big enough to have a vibrant energy. This is a port for the ferries that transport people to the islands south of here and make connections in western Turkey. Five and six story buildings line the waterfront while apartment buildings and larger private homes are layered on the hillsides behind the bustling downtown. This is not a beach waterfront as some of the earlier coastline presented with the string of hotels. There are fishing boats and larger recreational charter boats. The massive ferries tower over all of them while tourists sit in open air cafes, bars and restaurants soaking in the sounds, the smells, and the sights on all sides of them.I spent a little time researching Sufi sacred sites in Turkey and am slowly putting together a plan. When I arrive in Istanbul I plan to spend as long as I need to really get a flavor of the city and this new world that I have entered. I also don’t want to leave until I have route and a plan to Konya that feels safe to me. I plan to engage many people in that conversation and not slip into any kind of challenge and adventure that reeks of false heroism. This is about wearing the cloak of Rumi and if the journey begins to steer me toward Brian’s personal ego I will have taken a detour that will not serve me or the purposes of this trip well.Today, heading east a little more. Fall is in the air though. It’s overcast and I am not sure if rain might be brewing for later. If the headwind persists I may end up in Xanth tonight. If the riding has some ease to it, I may reach Komonini and be within one day’s ride of the Turkish border. My Visa has been approved, my heart is ready, and my legs are still churning.
Driving Toward Home
I could feel it all day. My legs were pumping hard. I was pushing toward something. Kavala was 170 kilometers (105 miles) away, a two day trip at this point. Yet, halfway there I came through a nice village with lodging and restaurants right on the sea and I just wasn’t able to stop. I was holding out a slightly delusional hope that I might be able to keep those pedals moving all the way to Kavala. At 110 kilometers my legs were starting to complain and the sun was heading down. I decided it was time to stop at the first place where I could find a hotel or decent campsite.
I am here in Ofrinio about 50 kilometers from Kavala in what is clearly a favorite destination during the summer. The beachfront bars and restaurants are strung along the coast for nearly two kilometers. Every hundred meters a lifeguard stand is propped up in the sand. Makeshift shacks are scattered abut where beach-goers can quickly grab a beer or snacks. But, right now the little resort town looks more like the fairgrounds the day after the fair closes. With the exception of workers stacking chairs, tables and umbrellas and a few summer stragglers like me, it looks a little twister ripped through here. They are clearly closing up shop for the winter. This is the third place in the last four where I have been either the only guest or one of only two or three.
The drive in my legs though was the result, I believe, of three forces that have met. I remember this feeling three years ago when, on my last pilgrimage, I made the turn west in Colorado after cycling east and south for four weeks. That little directional turn made me feel like I was going home and I could feel my energy shift even though I still had over 2,000 miles and six weeks to go. The departure from Thessaloniki offered that same feeling. For some reason it marked a threshold from leaving home to going home.Of course, I can feel the growing excitement and nervousness about entering a whole new world a culture. It feels like what I would anticipate feeling just before taking off in a hang glider for the first time—excited and shaking in my boots terrified. That’s maybe a bit strong, but you get the point.
But, there is one more thing. I really had breakthrough in Thessaloniki. This city that has a history of many religions and gods shook something loose that I been wrestling with for years. In my post “Bread Crumbs, Bread Crumbs…” I included in my last paragraph the request, “Don’t ask me if I believe in God.” That was really important for me to say.If I had been the pastor in a church and said that all hell would break loose and I would never even be able to address the deeper implications. My time would be spent cleaning up the mess from the bombs that would explode. This is a process that I am all too familiar with. I made one attempt this last year when I wrote a letter to the editor that included the self-identifier, “I am an agnostic, Christian mystic biker-guy.” It was months before we really negotiated our way through that, but my ministry never really fully recovered after that.Yet, I have felt compelled to try to change the conversation and my post two days ago finally put me in the position I wanted to be. I have felt in our American culture that there are only two options with regard to God: you either believe in God or you don’t! It is very narrow and tight box.
After Thessaloniki I felt like I had the language I was looking for. I had to find a way out of this either/or thinking that assumed as soon as I had any questions at all about God that it meant I didn’t believe. But, it’s the wrong question for me. For me, it’s not about believing or not believing. What is most accurate and true for me is that I trust in the power of the gods and our religious narratives to mirror the deeper spiritual realities alive in all of us and world. I trust in our myths to reflect the ancient and eternal archetypes that seem to get played out in every person and culture. Jesus said, “The kingdom of heaven is within you.” I believe that the gods we have fashioned and the icons we have created have the power to uncover and expose that heavenly realm and bliss within us.
This is why I am attracted to the world of the mystics. Mystics, by definition, believe that the way to God or to the divine is through the ordinary, material world in which we live. The sacred is right under our feet if we allow ourselves to feel and see it. God is as close as our next breath and the hand of our neighbor reaching out to us.Yesterday, after twenty kilometers of climbing out of Thessaloniki I stood at the top of the mountain and looked out over the expansive plain of Greece. A large long lake was my companion to the north for most of the morning. The sea was my companion to the south in the afternoon. I imagine that I will likely be riding on mostly flat or slightly rolling hills now until I reach Tekirdag, Turkey where I plan to take a ferry into Istanbul. If all goes as planned I will be crossing the border into Turkey on Monday or Tuesday.
Life is a Wheel
Thursday, October 2 Thessalonika Wrap Up DayTomorrow I will be a pound lighter. I have read two books on this trip—Brian Benson’s Going Somewhere about his cross-country trip on bike and Life is a Wheel, NY Times journalist, Bruce Weber’s, account of his cross-country trip on his bike in 2011 at the age of 57. Gosh! Is there a theme here and am I as boring as I sound? Actually, I have been reading them as part of shaping my own book from my western pilgrimage in 2011.
Tonight I finished Weber’s book that was especially enjoyable given our similar ages and the questions and issues that one seems to face at this age that weren’t there in our twenties and thirties. I left in on the swap shelf here at the hostel for others to enjoy in their travels. I would love to keep the book for later reference, but dropping the weight has become more important than transporting it another 1,000 kilometers. I know Bruce will understand!Today, I visited a few more sights that I wanted to see before packing up and moving east again. St. Paul’s Cathedral was on my list, but I am not sure the large church I visited was it given the locked gates and the Greek lettering that I still haven’t quite mastered even with a semester of Greek in seminary (just 25 years ago…eek!).I also visited the Church of Dimitrious, the oldest church in Thessaloniki and the largest one in Greece. It was pretty astounding and ornate in much the same way that much of the Vatican was, but in miniature form. The Greek Orthodox churches are recognizable from the inside, however, by their wooden chairs and the walls of iconography that tell a story of which I am not yet familiar. My last stop was the Rotondo, a massive ancient circular structure. It too, unfortunately was behind locked gates, but the story is intriguing. It was built by one of the Caesars in the Roman period, was converted to a Christian cathedral after Constantine and in 1590 became an Islamic mosque.
This story reflects something deep in the cultural psyche of Thessaloniki people. I had just a glimpse of it, but to speak of Greek culture here is not the same as it is in the villages that I passed through. For one, it is a very secular city with a port and international commerce. But, Thessaloniki didn’t even become part of Greece until 1912 when it was liberated from the Ottoman Empire. Thessaloniki does not have a singular ethnic identity except that it is Greek in same way that recent immigrants in the U.S. are American, but have origins in Germany, Italy, the Philippines, Mexico, etc. The fact that the city has had different periods of Christian, Jewish, Islamic and Hellenistic influences seems to add to richness of the city and leave it vulnerable to conflict.Tomorrow I leave Thessaloniki with the next major destination being Istanbul. In some ways it feels like this is what I came for—to enter this world of the East that so much of our focus has been on in the last ten or so years since 9/11. I am aware of the strange paradox that a Sufi Islamic mystic has become, maybe America’s favorite and most read poet and, we are at war with Islamic fundamentalist militants. I hope to get a better grasp of this strange paradox and discover the day-to-day religious faith of the people who aren’t on the front pages of the New York Times.
I spent part of day planning a route out of the city that wouldn’t require a stiff shot of whiskey before going (I jest, really!). It appears that I negotiated through the worst of the city coming in. My route out may be a fairly simple navigation through a few neighborhood streets (not exactly easy as they are jagged cobblestones) and into a forested and protected park that is supposed to deposit me into the unpopulated and scenic countryside close to the coast.I am in a really good frame of mind—have been pretty much since leaving Italy with the exception of the nervous ride out of Larisa. I have a mind boggling set of uncertainties still before me, yet with this much uncertainty I also have opportunities that others wouldn’t have who are tied down to established responsibilities. I have no reason to feel this calm and confident about my future.
Weber's book, Life is a Wheel, ends with how I feel, "Where we are is where we belong. Never wish away the distance. Never wish away the time."
Bread Crumbs, Bread Crumbs...
Wednesday, October 1 Thessaloniki Discovery Day(written two days after Rumi's 807th birthday--Sept 30)I am following a trail of emotional bread crumbs this morning. I am not sure exactly where they are going and what they are about, but the crumbs that are right in front of me are about sadness and the crumbs just ahead are inviting me to some tears. I need to write my way through this and where this blog post ends I don’t yet know.
My friends, I am not coming back. Don’t get scared! Of course, I am going to physically return. In the next two to four weeks I’ll be boarding a plane that will land in Portland. What I mean is that I will never be able to return to the world I left four weeks ago. I can feel that Thessaloniki is that threshold. I need to either book a flight out of here now and pick up where I left off or turn those wheels one more time and let them carry me into a new world that mirrors my own internal spiritual, psychological reality.I think I know where this happened that I knew I was walking through a door that was going to close behind me. I was in the museum of the Roman Forum exploring the archeological findings and the evolving history of it in Thessaloniki. I came across a few panels that described some of the cultural values of the Hellenistic culture.
I came across the statue of a male nude, well-formed physically, strong, beautiful, proud. The panel described a people who honored and held up the virtue of physical beauty, agility, strength as well as sensuality and the erotic. Remember they worshiped the gods of Eros, Apollos and Aphrodite. They described the place of the gymnasium in Hellenistic culture (“gymnos” means nude in Greek) as a community gathering spot for taking care of the body, nurturing it, bathing, and engaging in intellectual discussions.Here is what happened for me. In a flash I suddenly felt known and understood. I have attempted to describe this feeling I get with my cycling, but never quite feeling like I can say it in a way others will go “I get it!”. When I read about the place of the gymnasium and the love of the human body in Greek culture I recognized myself. In America I feel like exercise is directed toward living as long as possible and keeping our health care costs down. But, it is not a virtue unto itself! I want to say that again. In America the honoring of the body is not a virtue unto itself. It is always a means to an end.
Okay, the bread crumbs are leading somewhere. I cycle and do yoga and hike and swim and walk and play ping pong not because I might live longer or be less depressed. I do all those things because I feel like I am participating in some pre-ordained expression of beauty. To feel the miracle of the body in motion is like driving that red Corvette sports car along the Pacific Ocean. You don’t do it to achieve some future end. You do it because it makes you feel alive down to the very bones in your spine.There is a whole thesis here that I can’t go into today. But, why the sadness? I think it has to do with my inherited Christian tradition. Today I will explore more of this world where the apostle Paul had some early impact. Actually, he didn’t receive a warm welcome here, but whatever he started got blessed by Constantine centuries later and became a global movement. But, let’s be honest. The apostle Paul wasn’t real keen on honoring and nurturing the pleasures and the beauty of the human body. Paul believed that one needed to tame the world of the flesh in order to gain a peek into the world of the spirit. A whole tradition of beating back the flames of physical passion emerged that has included fasting and even scourging oneself with barbed nails in order to keep the wild beasts of flesh in their cages.
Okay, where are these bread crumbs going? The answer is I found another way that is more in line with the Hellenistic thinking of the gods of Apollos and Eros. I suffer too on my bike, not by taming the flesh but by employing it and engaging it and training it into a discipline that seems to lead me into a deeply soulful, passionate and vital place. Three years ago I wept as I stood at the top of Trail Ridge Road in Colorado (12,183 feet) and it took every ounce of pulsating, screaming, and gloriously alive flesh to propel me up into that thin rarefied air. Flesh and spirit are married in my life. Body and soul are dance partners at Life's wedding banquet.Why the sadness? Where are these bread crumbs leading me? I am sad because I don’t want to fight anymore. There will be some who will read this post who will argue with me that I am misreading Paul and misrepresenting his voice. Maybe they are right, but show me the church where the body is truly honored and adored. And I am sad because some will want to know whether I now believe in the “pagan gods” of Hellenistic culture. I have no answer except to say that yesterday I felt known and understood for the first time with regard for the love of the body. A culture got me. An ancient mythology mirrored my internal psychic mythology.
If it were just that one brief meeting with the Greek gods I might be able to let it pass. But, those Greek gods are still alive here. Maybe not by name, but it is in the culture. I can feel it. Last night I sat at ataverna, drank another Greek beer, and enjoyed an assortment of Greek appetizers. The place was slowly filling up and at about 10:00 p.m. a trio of musicians—guitarist, autoharpist and fiddler—took over the place. It was Greek music, but unlike the music I heard in Litochoro—loud, joyful and boisterous—this music had a clear Middle Eastern influence.What intrigued me about it is how much it is meant to wake up the soul through a deep, repetitive rhythm that is part joy, part sorrow. As the evening wore on the taverna was transformed into what I can only describe as part religious meditation and part sensual orgy. The point being is that we were transported to the place of soul not by denying the sensual pleasures of the evening, but by employing them and allowing them to have room to take flight. Yes, there was some drink involved as well. But, that is the point. Music, drink, conversation, good food, laughter, and hugs were the recipe for an ecstatic night that I am beginning to see is part of normal living here.More to come, I am sure, as I round the bend to follow the bread crumbs a little further. I was attracted to Rumi and the ecstatic dances of the whirling dervishes. I have a feeling that Thessaloniki is just the appetizer. There is no turning back now.
One other note: I met three other men who were on journeys and pilgrimages of their own. A German who flew to Thessaloniki and who will now make his way back to Germany through eastern Europe. A Frenchmen, Benjamin, who started in Istanbul and will make his way back to France through Greece and Italy. And Steve, who is on a walking pilgrimage from Rome to Istanbul, much like me. I was especially intrigued by him as he has already done the more famous Camino de Santiago and was looking for a unique route and came up with something similar to me. I look forward to following him at www.backcountryderelict.net.
It will be interesting sending this post today as I imagine some of the bread crumbs that will show up on the path will be in the form of the responses and non-responses of my community. Don’t ask me if I believe in God anymore. I know what I know and somehow in the character of the many gods we have fashioned in our cultures is the one God who is the beginning and the end, the alpha and the omega for me. And I am quite sure she is strong and beautiful!
Transition and Shifting
Tuesday, September 30 Methoni to Thessaloniki(written Wednesday morning)Transition. Shifting. Movement.Interesting day. As you are aware early on in the pilgrimage I needed to get calmed down in order to “stay in the moment.” Today I felt like I was both in the moment and concentrating on my destination. This pilgrimage has been very different than my last one when I cycled through the western United States. On that pilgrimage I stayed very close to the route I had planned. And because it was the West with its broad expanses, it was typical for me to have a day where my map said, “Turn right. Go 400 miles. Turn left. Stay on highway for 90 miles, etc.” On this pilgrimage I feel like I have a final destination in mind, but I have my map, a compass, and lots of local advice. It is more involved, but also appealing in the same way that a scavenger hunt is.
Yesterday was a good example. After swimming in my skivvies in the Aegean Sea for a few minutes I set my sites on my next destination. I had a reservation at a hostel in Thessaloniki for three nights so I needed to make the trek from Methoni to here. The most direct route was on a freeway, but was only 60 kilometers (37 miles) away. I wanted to avoid the freeway so I picked a route that added about 20 kilometers, but would keep me on a lesser highway. Wrong choice! The freeway at least had an eight food wide shoulder. This highway had shoulder room, but no lines and it was filled with both agricultural and industrial truck traffic.
I finally figured out why. I had picked a route that was so far out of the way that it was the main thoroughfare to all the outlying towns northwest of Thessaloniki. I needed to find a way to get back toward the freeway, if possible, where I might find local roads and, if not, could use the wide shoulder of the freeway. I discovered a frontage road that was perfect—20 kilometers of peaceful, traffic-free riding with only the occasional tractor or car.Getting into Thessaloniki was not the worst traffic I have ever encountered, but it definitely kept me on my toes. And, I was stopping every few blocks to once again check my final destination with my current location as I wound my way through residential streets, main arteries, and congested business districts. This part of Thessaloniki will be great for walking, but is not conducive to cycling—narrow streets, broken, buckled pavement, and lots of traffic and distractions. It feels like I am in a video game trying to survive long enough to go to the next level.So there was a transition getting here, but I am noticing another shift that is subtle, but clear. The “Rome to Rumi” theme has some meaning here. The closer I am getting to Turkey the more people seem to care about what I am doing. In Italy people were intrigued sort of like, “That’s an interesting project.” In western and central Greece local people were pleased to share their local religious culture. But, in the last 100 kilometers I am getting a different reception. People feel strongly about presence of and the clash of cultures in this part of the world.
It’s good that I am observing and studying and recording. I don’t think it would be received well by some if I was taking a position of more or less recognition or tolerance of religions outside of Greek Orthodox. I have heard from both sides—those who feel that there needs to more tolerance for Islam and other religious faiths and those who are fighting to hold onto a purer Greek cultural identity. I met one man yesterday who stopped me as I was negotiating a difficult section of traffic. He went into his home (his mother’s home, actually, as he is one of the 24% of Greeks who are unemployed), and brought out chocolates and lemonade. He asked about where I was going and when I told him that Istanbul was my next significant stop, he quickly corrected me telling me that it’s proper Greek name was Constantinople.I am now at the most amazing hostel. Talk about hospitality and creating a warm, homelike atmosphere. I was welcomed with cold water and a local Greek favorite, a coffee frappe (a frothy mixture thicker than cappuccino). There are four of us to a room, but a door separates out each bunk bed making it feel like just two per room. Each room has its own little kitchen, plates and utensils, cookware, and a couple of coffee options depending on your national preference.
As I received my orientation to the hostel and to the city, it was made clear that I am now in a different part of the world and certainly a different Greece. Vicky, the young, energetic, brightly-optimistic, red-headed owner of the hostel gave me a clear picture of the cultural make-up of the city. I am still trying to get my head around what this means in modern terms, but she informed me that the city is made up of four distinct cultures—Hellenistic, Jewish, Ottoman, and Byzantine. Istanbul (Constantinople) may be the official city where West meets East (the Bosphorous River is the dividing line between Europe and Asia in the city), but I can feel that I am already riding into the confluence of cultures.Finally, one other note on transition. I believe I was in western Italy about two weeks ago when I came around a sweeping corner while ascending one of the softer and more inviting hills of the trip. A small gust of wind came up and dozens of browning leaves were dislodged from the trees from my right. They floated down crossing my path from right to left in what was a brief glimpse of the future. I immediately felt that it was a message. “Fall is in the air, my friend. Be prepared.”For the last four days the riding has been very comfortable, but there is chill in the air. The sun in warm still, but the air quickly cools down in the shade. The mornings are a little chilly. By 4:00 p.m. I can feel the temperature beginning to drop. The extra night I spent on the mountain in Ambelakia almost had a winter spirit about it. A little colder and those raindrops would have been snowflakes.The locals are telling me that it has been unseasonably cold this summer and fall. I checked average temperatures before I left to determine the best time to take this journey. I wanted to be late enough to miss the holiday crowds and early enough to beat winter. It feels like fall is at least two weeks, maybe even three weeks ahead of schedule. I am fine now and will be fine. I brought enough clothing to handle fall weather. Anything more than that I may need to stop in Istanbul and re-weatherize.
And my question yesterday, “Where, O where do I best serve” is working on me. Some things are clear. I have a grandchild on the way and adult children whom I enjoy and would benefit from having me around more. I have a blossoming love interest and my gifts and character are definitely needed, just maybe not in the way we have come to define them in a typical job and paycheck.Transition. Shifting. Movement. All is well. All is well.
Olympic-Sized Ambition
Monday, September 29 Litochoro to Methoni(written Tuesday morning)
I don’t tend to be an early riser, but today I woke up just in time to see the sun peek up over the Aegean Sea from my waterfront balcony. Thessaloniki, about 80 kilometers by bike, is nestled under a single mountain, just to the north of the rising sun. It sounds like I am in a posh resort hotel, but far from it. The Agiannis is a combination hotel/camping spot where the camping spots are a little better than average and the hotel significantly less than average. But, for a price slightly higher than what I have been paying for camping spots this is a deal and I have a waterfront balcony.I really had a marvelous day yesterday. I had arranged to have my gear stored at the hotel while I made the trek up Mt. Olympus. After a breakfast that was just enough to fuel my ride up the hill without dragging me down, I coasted down the 200 meter section to the bridge that served as the real starting point. From there I immediately was obligated to go up and keep going up. Without the 45 pounds of weight, however, I felt like I was just dancing on the pedals. I couldn’t believe how easily I was gliding up the Mt. Olympus incline.
The terrain leading up to Mt. Olympus is both lush and rugged. At one point I stopped for pictures and could see the hiking trail that leads to the top. Following it I realized what a visual and physical treat it must be. I could see it winding its way through the forest that seemed to hold the earth from falling down into the ravines below. Then the path would disappear as it would hit jagged rocky areas. I knew the trail must continue and imagined the bit of courage that it must take to delicately negotiate those riskier sections. I immediately wanted to call my girlfriend and invite her to backpack with me to the top.I was part way up the mountain when I suddenly became aware of the significance of this ride. I was riding up Mt. Olympus, THE Mt. Olympus. Thirty-five years ago I took time off from college inspired by the possibility of riding my way into the Olympics. I can’t say that I got close, but I did reach the National Championships in my second and third years before returning to college. Looking back on that period I think I had the raw talent to make it, but I didn’t have the discipline or the support. In many ways this and my last pilgrimage are serving as the completion of that dream. I have finally put all three pieces together—discipline, talent and support.
I enjoyed a wonderful descent down the mountain. What took an hour and forty-five minutes to conquer going up took less than a half hour going down. There were some wonderful sections where I could just let the bike go and glide through corners, but much of it was too steep and not knowing the road and potential hazards, I found myself needing to brake cautiously around many corners.Leaving Litochoro seemed to signify a shift of some sort. I ate a late spaghetti lunch who engaged me in conversation about my trip. When he discovered that I was going as far as and further than Istanbul where West meets East he offered his own thoughts. Like many of us in America who feel like the Church should be more open to other religions, Demitrios expressed disappointment in the Greek Orthodox church saying that they won’t allow the Turkish Muslims to build mosques in Greece even though they build orthodox churches all over the world. He stated that he felt that the church and the people would be better off with a less religious and protective approach.I cycled up the coastline of the Aegean Sea checking my GPS often so that I could stay on lazy side roads and avoid the main highway that funnels traffic into Thessaloniki. At a strange little intersection that felt more like I had dead-ended in a park I stopped to get my bearings. There a thin man with long hair that reminded me of America’s hippie generation noticed my puzzled look and asked if I was trying to get to the beach. We spent a few minutes in conversation while he waited for his aunt to finish visiting the church of her childhood.
Kostakis knew about Rumi. He is the first person that easily recognized the name in Italy or Greece. Interestingly enough, Rumi has more name recognition in America than he does in these countries closer to his actual life and influence. I heard recently (not verified) that Rumi is the most purchased poet in America right now. Kostakis informed me that I should begin to experience a shift in culture as I travel east from Thessaloniki. In Thessaloniki there is (or least was) a Sufi site and community, but he is afraid that they may have gone underground because of Christian pressure.“After Kavala” (about 100 kilometers east), he said, “there are more Turks in Greece than Greeks and that I should start seeing mosques and a much deeper Islamic influence.” I am getting really excited about this part of the pilgrimage. For some reason Thessaloniki has felt like the end of one leg and the opening to something new and Kostakis was confirming that. Of course, Italy and Greece have also been new experiences for me, but they are part of the West. A significant part of this pilgrimage was to experience that shift from West to East that Istanbul (Constantinople) is and represents. I love that I feel that I am about to enter a new world like a kid on a Disneyland train with a ticket to something that before was only locked into his imagination.
My mind also took a journey of sorts today. I had a friend remind me of her offer for money if I needed it and it sent me into a place of really thinking about what I am doing and where I am going. I think my thoughts were prompted by the fact that I wouldn’t want to accept money if this whole thing was just some wild and crazy fling that I had to get out of my system. I know that it isn’t, but it still prompted quite a bit of reflection. I’ll save you the whole process of my thoughts, but I did settle on something that I already knew about myself and was good to say out loud: I don’t think I have ever thought about “making a living”. My mind, even from early college days, have been about “where can I best serve”.In 2003 as the Iraq War sadly sprang into action I found myself at the army recruiter’s office exploring the possibility of becoming an Army Reservist chaplain. The thought that we were at war and that I was in Portland making dinner, going to movies and enjoying TV shows at night didn’t seem right. Unfortunately, at 43 years of age, I was too old—which was too bad really because chaplains get better with age rather than worse.In a few weeks I will complete this pilgrimage. As I return to the States I will have a livelihood to think about. But, what I do know is that it is not the livelihood that will drive my decisions. Most of all I am going to want to know where and how I can best serve the community (and humanity, in general). That’s what feeds me. That’s who I am. As I write this I smile at the strange, almost paradoxical combination that makes me who I am. I have Olympic-sized ambitions and the heart of a chaplain. Where, O where can I best serve?
Cycling as Worship
Worship. That word has been rewinding its way through my brain all day. As I was putting my house on wheels back together again not far off in the background the Greek Orthodox service was just under way. In the village of Ambelakia, the bells rang indicating a starting time and then over loudspeakers I could hear the priest talking and chanting. Sometimes in response a whole chorus of male voices sang what sounded like alleluias. I was hoping I might be able to see and participate in just a portion of the service.
As I made my way out the door of my very comfortable hotel the clerk informed me that the service would end about 10:00 a.m. I only had 15 minutes. I carved my way up the steep exit and braked my way down the equally steep ramp to the intersection toward town. As I came to that spot I realized that I would have to ride on the jagged cobblestones up to the church. It would be rough going, the service was ending, but more importantl,y now that I was on my bike I was anticipating my own form of worship.It was Sunday morning and I couldn’t imagine anything more delightful, joyful, and refreshing than riding to the coast on the Aegean Sea and reaching the base of Mt. Olympus. I loved hearing the sacred rhythm of the service as it was broadcast to the whole community, but I had my own sacred rhythm calling me. I turned left, carefully negotiated my way down the twelve-switchbacked road that took me to the valley floor and headed east.As a footnote I will say that my decision to ride up the mountain on Friday night rather than on the highway to the coast was definitely the right decision. This morning the traffic was only ten percent of what it was that night, but I passed through a six kilometer section that required some attention today, but might have been disastrous on that windy, rainy evening as the sun was setting. The mountain had a rock wall and rather than blasting through another million tons of rock they just narrowed the shoulder from four feet to eighteen inches. There wasn’t much room for mistakes on my part or the part of the drivers.
But, back to worship. I consider a good worship service one that draws people to an experience of awe or joy or compassion or reflection or grief or forgiveness or wonder or any other spiritual quality. When I made the turn left rather than right in Ambelakia it occurred to me that I wasn’t choosing bike riding over worship; I was choosing one form of worship over another.I know that I love cycling, but I am beginning to acknowledge to myself that it is much more than a hobby or a form of exercise. In the right circumstances it is prayer for me. It is meditation. That six kilometer section wasn’t conducive to meditation (although I think I was praying!), but when all the pieces are there I do fall into a wonderfully deep, relaxed meditative state. In fact, I have been known to miss a turn or two because my mind shuts off and my heart takes over.
I had some of this today. As I emerged from the canyon that took me out of the mountains I had long stretches of road in coastal rural farmland. A headwind was pounding away at me, but I didn’t feel like I was fighting it or trying to pierce my way through it. I was in a good rhythm and my eyes were soaking in the lush surroundings, the soft feel of the terrain, and the sun that had been hiding the past two days.As I reached the coast I was stunned at how the development changed. I had been riding through quaint villages that I had only seen in National Geographic or on the covers of exotic travel magazines. Suddenly I was riding along a stretch where dozens of hotels were situated side by side. Finally, an opening between the hotels and restaurants appeared and I saw why: a turquoise blue Aegean Sea was rocking and rolling with the winds. It’s hard to believe that water can have so many different characters and this water was full of passion like the Oregon Coast, yet warm and inviting like the Indian Ocean. I dipped my feet in and promised myself that I would swim in it at least once before I left the coastline.
The treat of the day was meeting two other cyclists of the local variety. Nick and Nick were out for a good day ride and they were drinking Greek coffee when I sat down on a patio chair where I planned to drink coffee as well and gaze out over this marvelous piece of creation. There was Nick the opthomologist and Nick who had lived in Boston for ten years. Dr. Nick bought me Greek coffee. He asked me if I needed cream and sugar and I said I preferred it black. After they left I literally chewed the coffee as it was a muddy mixture that called for one part coffee bean, one part water. Next time, lots of cream and sugar!I ate the coffee and started heading north again on my bike hoping to get to the base of Mount Olympus and find out how much of it I might be able to ride before the road ends and trails begin. Behind me I thought I heard someone call my name, but paid little attention as I have become used to hearing the friendly banter and yelling that goes on between neighbors and friends in this Mediterranean land. Finally, I heard a, “Slow Down,” and discovered that Nick and Nick were just fifty meters behind me. Fortunately, they said that just at the base of a steep incline and I knew that with my gear it wouldn’t be long before they were on my tail. But, it never happened. I continued to spread the gap between me and them.
At the top, both said, “You are strong,” to which I joked that I had a motor in my rear pannier that I called on occasionally. Dr. Nick looked puzzled and I smiled as he got it and said, “Oh, a kind of joke!” Over the next few kilometers we talked and rode and I kept a pace that would allow me to enjoy their company. But, they were right I am very strong.I make a point of this not to draw attention to my strength or to stroke my already overly-healthy ego. I make the point in the context of my reflection on worship. It was four years ago when I embarked on my first solo trip—a week-long trek from the Central Valley of California, through Yosemite National Park, over Tioga Pass (elevation 9,143 feet) and up along the Sierras to Reno, Nevada. But, I can remember the day that I sat up on my bike with the sudden realization that God had given me a gift and that was strength and will and determination. God had blessed my body with an unusual strength and I was to celebrate it, honor it, and enjoy it.Since that time I have thought of my strength in much the same way that a singer thinks of her voice—a gift that must be shared and enjoyed; or how a dancer expresses a deeper impulse through movement; or how an artist nurtures a discipline in order to communicate profound realities through a paintbrush, clay or wood.
When everything is just right—the terrain lends itself to meditation, my mind is clear and my body is firing on all cylinders, cycling becomes worship in its most basic form. The steady rhythm of my legs pumping, my lungs expanding and contracting, and my breath counting out a steady beat feels very much like the repetitive chanting of religious devotion or the swaying of the body as one works one’s way into an ecstatic state of prayer.God may have given me a mind and a heart, but God also gave me a body and I am one of the fortunate ones who have been blessed with a body that continues to healthy and strong beyond my years. I cannot help but to celebrate this gift.
Tomorrow is worship. I am looking forward to this day like none other. I am staying in Litochoro, a tiny energetic village just a couple of kilometers from the sea and at the base of Mt. Olympus. The road goes up the mountain to the 3,600 foot level before narrowing to hiking trails only. I will leave my gear at the hotel and spend the morning climbing the mountain and relishing in the fast descent. I can imagine no better way to celebrate the gifts that are before me, around me and in me.
Rumi and Reality
Saturday, September 27 Ambelakia Rest Day
Although the road is never ending take a step and keep walking, do not look fearfully into the distance...On this path let the heart be your guide for the body is hesitant and full of fear. –Rumi
Today has been a good one for recovery. Not so much physically, but more mentally and psychologically. The every 24-hour cycle of pulling up stakes, assessing the route ahead for food and water, and then finding either a hotel, official campsite or just a flat spot hidden among the trees requires a discipline that is, quite honestly, dizzying.The pit in my stomach this morning was sending a message. I needed to take the time to formulate a plan so that I wasn’t just riding into unknown dangers. I had that plan on Thursday before my phone plan was suddenly terminated with no warning. I was going to visit a few more of the monasteries in Meteora on my way out of town anticipating arriving in Elassona by early evening. This would have put me just a few kilometers from the west side of Mt. Olympus.
With the death of my phone I changed plans. I decided to ride with Antonio on the less demanding route south. This would add close to 100 kilometers to my route, but gave me a companion and routed me through towns that were more likely to have phone shops.When Antonio decided to hang around Larisa, I got itchy to gain control of my schedule and pacing again. I pushed ahead assuming that I could either get to the coast where there was likely to be hotels and campsites or I would find something along the way given that Larisa was a significantly-sized town. I was lucky to find this Hotel Kouria at the top of the terraced mountain. But, the early morning anxiety that I was feeling was telling me that I just about put myself in a dangerous situation.
Today has felt really good. I have sent off emails to potential hosts all the way to Istanbul. I have a pending reservation for three nights in Thessaloniki at a hostel. I have written down the names of people I will need to contact as I near Turkey. I have connected with a professor in Konya, my destination, about potential hosts, safety issues, and media inquiries. I took a nap. I did my wash. I tossed a few unnecessary items from my panniers. I cleaned my cooking gear. I took a nice walk on the cobblestoned streets. I spent a few minutes in an Greek Orthodox Church. I drank a glass of red wine. I watched a football (soccer to Americans) game at a local taverna. I cleaned my bike, oiled the chain and checked that all the bolts were tight.I am thinking about Rumi’s quote “to take a step and keep walking” while I have chosen to stop and take a breath. It doesn’t sound very Rumi-esque to give in to the fears of this morning. But, I believe there are fears that are based only on what we don’t know, to which Rumi is referring. And there are fears that are based on what we do know. Last night the rain and the wind was real. The freeway traffic was not an illusion. The map did not lie that my only other option was a mountain to climb. The friendly official warning from local police was not just for fun. And both the sun and my watch said that darkness was on its way.
I do believe that this pilgrimage is an exercise in trust. But, trust does not mean shutting my eyes to the evidence and dismissing what is real. There will still be unexpected surprises and challenges along the way, but, at least for now I have a plan that has dissolved the anxiety from this morning. I am learning not to fear that which I do not yet know. But, I still plan to keep a healthy fear of semi trucks, thunder storms, and darkness. An exercise in trust does not mean falling into the pit of stupidity.This morning I was anxious. Tonight I feel ready to tackle another leg of this journey.
Living in the Picture
Friday, September 26 Stealth camp to Abelakia (heaven, I think)(Saturday morning)I am sitting here some 1,000 feet above the valley floor in a hotel at least one star higher than what I deserve (or can afford). At times the wind howls past the picture windows where I can see the trees bending and shaking. At the calmer moments the blanket of trees on the hillsides across the way move in rhythm not unlike the waves of an ocean rocking back and forth in a small bay.
I feel lucky to be in the small village of Abelakia today. I woke up feeling nervous and a little unsettled. I haven’t completely nailed down why the feelings were there this morning and not last night. I might have just been too tired last night to feel anything except a yearning for a real bed and an unbroken night of sleep. I haven’t had that since Bari in Italy just before rolling my portable home onto the ferry.Yesterday morning Antonio and I had a very pleasant and enjoyable trek into Larisa. I still don’t accent the right syllable in Larisa and Antonio is quic to correct me each time. It rained off and on during the night in our secret little campsite. Sometime right about the moment that wildlife was anticipating the dawn it sounded like hundreds of birds were flying around in the upper limbs of the trees ushering in the morning. Likely it was only a couple dozen, but the whole grove erupted in squawks, wings flapping and branches shaking.
I was reminded of northern Idaho and eastern Washington as we did our version of a two-wheeled roller coaster ride. Chug-chug-chug up a small hill, and whee-whee-whee down the other side. There were more cotton fields, corn fields and lots of pasture land for sheep. The goal was to get into Larisa before the afternoon siesta time and purchase a Greek phone number as well as a data plan. We did that. I made it in time. An hour later I was set up and should have coverage for ten days, almost enough to get me from Greece to Turkey where I’ll need to repeat all of this again.Antonio settled into a bar in the shopping district just two blocks from the Vodafone shop waiting for me. There he discovered that the owner was also a cyclist. When I returned, Antonio, Thannos (the owner) and another couple were enjoying coffee and some clear liquid that was obviously more potent than water. Rain clouds were threatening and after catching up on some correspondence I joined them. For three hours we talked about Greece, America, Spain, mythology, popular culture, and the values that tie all of us together. Thannos’ favorite book is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and in our conversations about the adventure of life he quoted from the book saying, “I want to be in the picture, not a part of the frame.” He was talking about taking the risks to engage with life rather than to sit and observe life from a distance.
The sun attempted to come out on a couple of occasions between bursts of hard rain. I could feel that Antonio and I were viewing the day with a different expectation. He was enjoying the growing number of people who were joining our table for conversation and appetizers. “This is Mediterrean life,” he sighed. I was starting to think about getting up the road and out of the city. I pushed the issue a little and Antonio was clearly going to stay put and see how things unfolded (which completely works for him as he has no agenda but to stay in a place as long as he is enjoying it and move when he isn’t. He said he planned to stay at a host’s house in New Zealand for a night and ended up staying six months. This is a lifestyle for him, at least for the moment.) I decided to take off and get clear of the city where I would have fewer distractions to formulate a plan for getting to Thessaloniki.This may be why I am feeling a little unsettled this morning. I am nervous about getting back out there in the same way that a sixteen year old driver doesn’t want to get back on the freeway after being initiated by honking semis and near misses. I was forced to decide between taking a meandering route toward the sea with what appeared to be no towns or just very small villages. This meant another night of stealth camping which I just didn’t want to do two nights in a row. I already feel disorganized and gross. Or I could take a main artery that went directly to the sea. It all started out fine. I had a large shoulder to work with despite fairly heavy traffic. Suddenly my road merged onto a freeway and there were no other options except to find a way to turn around and head back to Larisa and plan again or keep moving forward. I chose the latter.
I was thankful again for a very broad shoulder. A few miles in a truck that looked to be some combination of police car and rescue vehicle flashed its lights and pulled up alongside me. “Problem,” the official in the passenger seat said over and over again. Problem was the only word we could agree on, but with a series of hand motions it was clear that they didn’t think I should be on the road. I tilted my head and put my hands next to ear in the universal sign that I was looking for a place to sleep. They mentioned the name of the town on the sea where I would find lodging which I knew was still about 25 kilometers out.What I couldn’t tell was whether they were telling me to get off the road or just trying to let me know that they didn’t consider it safe. In the end, the message I got was, “You really shouldn’t be out here, but do make sure you get off in Platimora.” I felt reasonably safe where I was, even if slightly anxious, but I did wonder what they knew that I didn’t.
Just after my friendly Greek warning, I found a truck stop just as the wind had picked up tremendously and I needed to figure out my options. The rain was coming, sometimes hard and sometimes softly, depending on how much the wind whipped it up. My cell phone was down to the “low battery” warning. It was 5:00 p.m. Over the next hour both in the truck stop and on the road I changed my mind three times. It was clear that I had two options: ride on the freeway--the most direct route to a city and the certainty of lodging or negotiate my way on side roads, which because of the mountains on both sides of the freeway meant tripling or quadrupling my route and stealth camping again.I finally put my head down and drove into the wind with my raincoat over my upper body and head and rode toward the sea with a single-minded determination. I wasn’t but five kilometers into this race against darkness when I saw a sign for Hotel Kouria that pointed to the right and declared that it was only four kilometers away. A service station was at the intersection. They confirmed that, yes, there was a hotel in the little mountain village of Abelakia, but that it was up a long series of switchbacks. The man said in broken English, but with clarity, “If me, I ride with cars. Mountain steep.”
I walked out the front door with the two clerks watching and turned right and came face to face with the “Mountain steep” that he referred to. I was thankful that I had only ridden 50 kilometers at that point and my legs were still fresh. The road took me up about a dozen switchbacks significantly steeper than the San Giovanni Rotondo finish in Italy. A ferocious wind was blowing and became both devil and angel. Because I was riding on switchbacks I alternated between headwind, crosswind and tailwind. The headwinds reminded me of the Strong Man Competitions where walking steroids pull trucks behind them. Every pedal stroke felt like I was lugging a car behind me. Then I would round the switchback and the wind would grab my butt and lift my bike just enough that the lactic acid would dissolve from my legs and give me some reprieve. For 45 minutes I inched my way up the 4 kilometer grade with a glorious sunset behind me reminding me of this picture I had been invited into. No standing on the sidelines in the frame on this day. Not allowed.Today, I am letting the storm clouds pass. It was only 52 degrees at 9:00 this morning. There is some blue sky and more of it predicted for later in the day. But, now the wind continues to whip and storm clouds are gathering in the mountains close by. I have looked at my map and the geography and I think I know what I need to do. I can avoid the busy highway (the freeway went away a couple of kilometers ago), but it means at least two days in the mountains and as much as I love mountains my body and soul is now wanting to let the terrain work for me rather than me needing to conquer the terrain. I have a short fifteen kilometer stretch with the cars and then coastal roads that will lead me all the way to Thessaloniki.
But, I will use today to catch my breath, make a plan for coming days, and enjoy this little town that comes with a full booklet about the religious paths and trails around the city. What a treat at the top this terraced mountain. Can a person be sobered by the severity of the days and deeply grateful at the same time? If so, that’s where I am at.
Trim that Mustache, please!
Thursday, September 25 Meteora to Stealth Camp Spot west of Larisa, GreeceI had a dream last night (Thurs nite) that I was working for some people as a counselor/consultant. After a meeting one of the principals pulled me aside and asked if I would please trim my mustache. The tone of the short conversation was that she really liked my unusually incisive and perceptive assessments, but that the other principals were having a hard time taking me seriously because I looked kind of ragged.
That’s how I feel this morning and will just need to be patient as I get into a better environment to put some pieces back together again. The first issue was that my phone data plan suddenly terminated itself Wednesday evening! Unlike two weeks ago when it frustrated me, this time I am looking at it through the lens of negotiating different countries. Why should I expect all that to go smoothly when hopping from border to border? If only Italy and Greece could agree on a few things for my personal convenience!Handling it yesterday was somewhat comical. I first went to Vodafone who informed me that because I purchased my plan with Wind that I needed to go up the street to them. I appreciated the referral. I went to Wind who has originally sold me the plan in Italy. But, unfortunately when I crossed the Adriatic Sea my phone switched over from Wind to Cosmote. The Wind folks said that they couldn’t address this issue because Cosmote was my carrier. Oh boy! Wind sold me the package, but Cosmote picked up the service from Italy to Greece. This wasn’t looking good.
I walked another hundred meters (anything close here is referred to as “just a hundred meters!) and found Cosmote. Cosmote explained to me that my Italian phone number would not work in Greece and that is why it was terminated. Funny it worked for five days first. I don’t get it. I finally agreed that I would need to buy more data to get me through another ten days (I actually wanted fourteen days, but they wouldn’t sell me that much.) We signed all the papers, he did his gadget work, and voila! Damn. He said the phone number he was using wouldn’t work on an iPhone. He sent me back to Vodafone saying they are the only provider who can give SIM cards that work for iPhones.I thought I was getting close. The clerk at Vodafone gave me a suspicious look when I returned. I am sure she was thinking, “I already told this American I couldn’t help him.” I explained what had happened and that I was ready to purchase more data for another ten days. That she could do. She took my passport, I signed the papers and then she realized that I had the iPhone 5s that requires a nanochip rather than a microchip. That would cost me 5,00 euros more. “No problem. Let’s do it,” I said. Only one problem. After looking through about one hundred cards she discovered she was out of nanochips, but could get them in a week. Sigh.I am now traveling with Antonio from Spain who is also headed to Thessaloniki. I had a planned to go north through the back country, but he was hoping to avoid more mountains and was planning to go south. The possibility of companionship for a day, two, three or four sounded good. Plus there are larger towns on the southern route where I can stop in a Vodafone store to get my phone working again (which by the way, we did at the next major town in Tikala. But, of course, we arrived at about 2 p.m. and it was closed for siesta time.)
I am writing from inside my tent in a little forest of trees that was planted as a wind break for a farm. All the trees are neatly lined up like kids in a kindergarten class. This is my first night of stealth camping. The town is just 500 meters away on one end of the forest and the farm is only a hundred meters away. But, we are fairly well hidden and the worst that will happen now is that we’ll be discovered and moved on just as we are moving on ourselves. It rained off and on during the night. I smell sweaty and salty from the day’s cycling and really hope that we will be able to find camping or accommodations on the coast where I can shower. I cooked last night for the first time on my newly purchased backpacking stove. It worked well, but I didn’t have enough water to do a thorough cleaning and so my cooking gear is just gross.
But, we had a leisurely day of riding. Both of us are still recovering from the three days of mountainous terrain. Yesterday was completely flat as we rolled by thousands of acres of cotton fields. They are in the middle of harvest now. The trucks continued to do their work clear through the night waking meat strange intervals.My dream seemed to catch how I am feeling—a little ragged. My mustache is too long. My beard is scraggly. My hair is always going all kinds of directions—either from waking up in the morning, wearing my helmet, or on those occasions when I am not wearing my helmet and I get a windblown look. My one T-shirt I brought is now stained with grease, food stains, and sweat. My turtleneck is fraying at the end of the sleeves and neck. I shouldn’t be out in public. My towel is wet, but not yet mildew-smelling.But, it will all work out. I’ll be patient. I just would like to feel not quite so gross! At some point I’d like to come home—but I am not sure I’d be welcome in this state.
This Pedal Stroke
Wednesday, September 24 Meteora Rest DayI have to smile at myself for my post of last week when I wrote in a near panicked voice, “If I can’t stay connected, there is no purpose for this pilgrimage.” There is some truth to this. I originally conceived of this pilgrimage as part of a professional move. In recent years I have felt this nudge to find a new way to build a platform for my voice as the pulpit has lost the credibility of former years. That, in addition to the fact that my most authentic voice has often been more celebrated in the larger community than in the church, has pushed me toward finding new avenues for my professional work.
Nonetheless, I nearly panicked last week as connectivity issues left me feeling isolated and burdened with the thought that I had gone out on a limb for the community and the limb was weaker than I had predicted. But, the rising panic was associated with the fact that I believed this pilgrimage was more professional than personal.That has changed this week. In fact, it might have been spurred on by the suggestion of many friends and posters. “Live in the moment,” they all seemed to chime in in unison. A former girlfriend who knows this pattern of mine well wanted to shake me into the present and remind me that this pilgrimage may be training for life upon my return. Remember I am returning to no job, the end of my savings and the termination of my health insurance shortly after my return. Life as pilgrimage!The message began to break through and I began to ride with a sense that I, Brian, needed to get to Rumi as much as anyone I was writing for. I titled one post, “This is for You,” and then realized that this is just as much for me, if not more so, than any reader who is following my pilgrimage and living it vicariously.
I wrote it in my “Rumi and Ecclesiastes” post that one world began to slip away after doing hospice work. I began to appreciate that life has a rhythm that doesn’t perform according to our definitions of success. It’s not as simple as “You do this, that will happen.” Yet, even with my exposure to and reflection on the rhythms of life and death, holding on and letting go, laughter and tears, I was still falling into the same trap. I believed that if I could make it from Rome to Rumi and carry you all along with me, I would build that bridge from the narrowing world of pastoral ministry to some new form that could carry me in the years to come.But, as I rode up the increasingly steep mountains and relished in the beauty and the goodness that lie before me it started to hit me. I don’t need to get anywhere. I don’t need to build any bridges to the future in order to be okay now. I am already here. I am already dearly held in the hands of a Presence that asks nothing more of me than to be faithful this day, this hour, and this pedal stroke.Tomorrow will take care of itself. I may suffer. I may laugh. I may yearn. I may cry. I may feel alone. I may throw my hands up in celebration or frustration. But, in all of it, a spirit deeper than I can fathom will sustain me and hold me and love me. And that's good enough for now.
I'm in Love
Monday and Tuesday, September 22 and 23I’m in love. The first day climb, descent, climb and descent into Ioannina was just foreplay. I have completely fallen in love with the terrain, the villages and the people of Greece. Some of this has to do with being a Colorado boy. Much of the past two days of cycling has reminded me of the Rocky Mountain and their rugged and harsh nature.
It started Monday morning as I made decisions about how to make my way to Meteora, famous for their cliff top dwelling monasteries. I am being careful not to say that I made a mistake, only that my decision presented me with a different set of challenges. There were basically three routes out of Ioannina that eventually lead one over the mountains. The first one immediately takes one to the base of a series of switchbacks and there was no way that I was going to do that unless forced to. The middle option provided a more even grade up the mountain, but also began only four kilometers from my starting point. The last one allowed for about ten kilometers of riding along the edge of the lake before needing to meet the second option after a shorter and steeper grade. I decided to take the option and give my body a chance to warm up.I paid for it. I hit a series of grades where I alternated between first gear granny riding to making “S patterns” across the road in order to keep moving forward to getting off my bike and pushing my load up the hill. It was the first time ever cycling that I had to push my bike and I felt no shame for it all.On the way I had a little face off with a steer. As I neared he positioned himself right in the middle of the road as if to say, “I dare you.” We stared at each other for awhile, each hoping that the other would back down. Finally a car came up behind me and waved me over to the left side of his car. There he escorted me by the steer putting his car between me and the steer. The steer never budged or flinched, but I won the contest.
Once I reached the grade that would take me up to the top of Kapala Pass (about 6,000 feet in elevation), I settled into a Dan Fogelberg-like bliss. With each pedal stroke I made my way higher above the valley floor and my perspective became broader and softer. Waves of pure goodness washed through me and left me in tears numerous times. At the base of another section two Greek couples had stopped for refreshment. As I came up on them they waved me over and handed me a hard-boiled egg and a fresh, unpeeled cucumber and cheered me on as if I was a competitor in some famous bike race.I thought a lot about contours. You see, I didn’t have to go this way. There was Highway 90 that flattened the route out, utilized numerous tunnels to short-circuit the steep and winding ascents and descents, and cut many kilometers off the distance. But, I realized that the highway was built with a destination in my mind. It was meant to get one to Thessaloniki as efficiently and as fast as possible. But, it costs something. On the highway one does not get to experience the contours of that same country.
Not far off the highway I rode through quaint, lovely villages often with only a couple dozen homes and one or two caffe bars where people sit outside drinking cappuccinos and engaging in meaningful or mundane conversations. Had I been on the highway I would not have had my first real challenge with sheepdogs. As I continued to climb I neared a corner where I could hear the barking. One by one a pack of six dogs emerged ready for me to pass through their territory. I knew this was going to be a face-off. I stopped and etreated about twenty yards to let them know that I was going to remain flexible. There I gathered a handful of golf ball and baseball-sized stones. I slowly began moving my way toward them keeping my bike between them and the rock wall behind me. I don’t know if I called their bluff or they knew I had rocks but as I neared them they slunk off down the hillside. I was relieved, but also thankful to have gotten a little practice for what will likely be the first of many encounters (This happened Tuesday too when I outran two dogs only to be greeted by two more in front of me. The young, toothless Albanian shepherd called them all off. I was only sorry that I wasn’t able to fulfill his request for a cigarette. I had smoked my last one the night before. Ha Ha!)
I spent the night in the perfect little town of Metsovo. About two-thirds the way up Kapala Pass hangs this little town on the steep hillsides of the mountain. Once you turn off the road you drop like a boulder from a balcony into the village built around the cobblestoned paths that were never meant for cars, but just horses and people. It’s perfect really! Little hotels that are centuries old, caffes and restaurants, and a bakery that serves up a wonderful sandwich-sized piece of baklava. Seriously, I am in love!It rained during the night. Hard. I looked out over my second floor veranda and water was running down the streets as if it were creating a new streambed. I woke to still more rain, but it was intermittent and the forecast was for sun later in the day. I decided to put my rain gear on and ride. I still had another 2,000 feet of climbing to reach the pass, but was assured that after that it was all downhill into Meteora.Again, I was reminded of Colorado and my treks up Trail Ridge Road (the highest paved highway in the world). As Fogelberg would say, “I felt so strong and alive…” as dug deep. Gusty, mean-spirited winds pushed me all over the road and I needed a four foot safety zone to accommodate my zigging and my zigging. I rode by a closed ski area and cycled between the eight-foot poles that lined the road for when the snow began to pile up. It was cold, harsh, and unforgiving and I was loving every second of it.” I feel so strong and alive, I feel so strong and alive!” I repeated over and over again in gratitude.
Somewhere along the way I missed a turn. I was supposed to crest the summit of the pass and go happily cascading down into Meteora over a forty kilometer joy ride. I crested what I thought was the summit and began hurtling down a wonderful descent that again reminded me of Colorado. Pine trees, a cold, sparkling stream and signs warning me to watch out deer crossing the road and bears crossing our paths. But, when I got the bottom I was no closer to Meteora. I had gone down, but I had gone down the wrong side (well, there is no wrong here!) of the mountain and before stood another pass to climb. As corrected my little mistake over the next three hours I was again thankful for the contours of the experience. Twice I saw the big highway off in the distance and was reminded that I was getting to experience Greece not just pass through it.As the day began to close in on me I knew I needed to refuel. I stopped at a little Greek caffe for a beer and some baked carbohydrate. I spent much of the time talking with Aristotles who told me that he got most of his English from Hollywood movies and music. I have just enough seminary Greek to recognize the symbol of the alphabet and can spell God (theos). As I prepared to leave Yolos, the owner invited me to enjoy an espresso and dessert with them. I first resisted knowing that my stomach had what it needed and my legs were now turning into stiff tree trunks. “Oh come on, enjoy an espresso with us.” I removed my cycling identity and allowed myself to be treated like a guest. There we shared espresso, finished off some dessert that was left over from a friend’s child’s Greek Orthodox baptism from two days before and talked about Greece, hope, religion, and life.
I write this now (Wednesday) from Meteora on a perfectly sunny, summery day. I have spent the morning with Antonio, a cyclist from Spain who appears to be following a similar route to Thessaloniki. Behind me are the monster rock spires that support the ancient monasteries. Before me is the goodness of another unpredictable and full, always full day.Contours. Love is felt in the contours.
Off in the Nether Lands
There was one more aspect of the ride from Igoumenitsa to Ioannina that I didn’t share with you yesterday. As I crested the first summit to my right was small walk in altar space. There were pictures and icons, candles and oils and a place to insert an offering, if one chose. I spent just a few minutes in there to thank the gods for the severity of the climb, the beauty around me and in me, and my ability to reach the top.As the day progressed, though, I began reciting the words to one of my favorite songs from the now deceased singer/songwriter, Dan Fogelberg. In his song Netherlands, he sings, “Off in the netherlands I heard a sound like the beating of heavenly wings; and deep in my brain I can hear a refrain of my soul as she rises and sings; anthems to glory and anthems to love and hymns filled with earthly delight; like the songs that the darkness composes to worship the light.”
That is the language and the experience of a mystic. I don’t know that anyone has ever labeled Fogelberg as a mystic—partly because we have forgotten the language in recent centuries and partly because it is usually reserved for the religiously devout. But, Fogelberg’s music reveals a mysticism that is just as profound and Teresa of Avila who finds an intimate union with God and St. Francis of Assisi who considers the animals his brothers.I was struck by the apparent coincidence (or maybe not) that at the top of the mountain an altar was erected (I think it’s Greek Orthodox) and Fogelberg’s lyrics of that point where the human and the divine meet both found expression. And I think both were pointing the same experience—that there is a hidden reality just underneath the surface of what we see and feel, if we just dig a little and peel away the curtain.
I write this on Monday morning after a day of rest in Ioannina. My legs still feel heavy, but experience tells me that once I start turning the pedals over the muscles will loosen up, my body will get lubricated, and my heart will open up a little more. Good thing too! Eventually (probably tomorrow) I will arrive in Meteora the site of the monasteries built high on the cliffs. In the way are three mountains and one of them boasts of a 3600 foot climb, 1500 feet more than the climb that rewarded me with an altar and Fogelberg lyrics. But, I am learning to take it as it comes and I may crest that summit today and limp into Meteora deliriously spent or I may camp halfway up the mountain and spread the delicious pain over two days. The good news is Antonio from Spain is just a day behind me and on the same route to Thessalonika. We might join up in Meteora if he gets his legs back under him from that same climb from Saturday.See you on the other side.
Unexpected, almost wacky goodness
Saturday, September 20 Ferry boat port in Igoumenitsa to Ioannina, GreeceI don’t know if it was a change in perspective or a change in circumstance, but I had one of those days that even old age couldn’t make me forget. The only way that seems to make any sense to me at all is to paint a series of pictures for you as it unfolded.SCENE 1: The Ferry Ride from Bari to Igoumenitsa
Because the ferry ride was expected to be from 8:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. I was hoping that a good portion of that would be sleep. I also spent a good deal of time reminding myself that whatever I faced when I arrived in Greece, I would be able to handle. Would my phone coverage suddenly be voided as I moved into another country? I was on an Italy-only plan that was supposed to transfer to a Travel Plan once I made the leap over the Adriatic Sea. Would I discover that like Italy I would arrive and it would be near to impossible to find food before 11:00 a.m. in the morning? It didn’t really matter. I was resolved to handle one thing at a time. Sleep was another issue. Nearly 50% of the ship was a large group of late teens/early twenties who ready to take advantage of the absence of their parents’ watchful eyes. They partied until about midnight. Late, but not unusual. Where they left off, however, a group of four men picked up until nearly 4:00 in the morning. They were consuming at a scarily rapid rate two bottles of Absolut Vodka. Three were Greek, one was Australian. The more alcohol they drank the more the Greeks were insistent on convincing the one lone Australian that Greece was the number one country in the world. I know this and the rest of the ship know this because the alcohol also seemed to serve like a P.A. system.SCENE 2: Arrival in Igoumenitsa, Greece
As we pulled into the ferry terminal it was still dark, but not the pitch black that one encounters in the middle of the night. I had three goals and one mantra. The three goals were 1) get food, 2) pack for the possibility that I might be stealth camping for a few days (meaning plenty of food, water, and hopefully a canister of fuel, and 3) figure out how to get out of the town and decide what route east through Greece would be the safest and most delightful. The mantra: “All will be well!” I didn’t see the veils of light from sunrise on the sea as it was slightly overcast, but being that I am not generally a morning person, I was delighted to discover that birds welcome the morning with song. Nice start to the day. And then things unfolded like clockwork. Numerous places were open for coffee. I had a Caffe’ Americano, recharged my phone, found two supermarkets (that’s one more than I found in all of Italy), bought supplies for the isolated countryside, and even purchased a canister of fuel from an 8-foot shelf with more than a dozen options.SCENE 3: I’m in home territory now!
Immediately out of Igoumenitsa I began climbing. Southern Italy has hills. Greece has mountains. They are not quite Rocky Mountain flavor, but believe me, these are real mountains. I immediately began to relax. I know this kind of terrain and despite what can, at times be punishing climbing, I feel at home reaching and aching for a summit and enjoying the post-climactic cascade down the other side. It’s not the reaching the top that is so exhilarating. It’s something about having a relationship with the mountain that one cannot get in a car. My body gets to know the mountain. I can feel the contours of the mountain by how my legs feel, by the sweat the runs down my body in sheets, and the rhythm of my breath. Is it deep and consistent or has it gotten to that double “Huh-Huh, Uh-Uh” when my lung capacity is at its max, but I want to keep from switching over to anaerobic power (the short bursts one uses only in sprints). Over two hours I gutted my way to the top over a dozen or so switchbacks and a consistently steep grade. Just as I reached the top a couple touring on tandems reached the top from the other side. Bob and Elizabeth are in the fourth month of a five month tour of every European country. They only have Italy, Spain, Portugal and France left.Scene 4: The strangest lunch I have ever hadI knew that I still had one more mountain to climb without the knowledge of whether it would be long and gradual, short and steep or something in between. All I knew is that Bob used his hands to describe the descent I would now enjoy after the 38 kilometers of climbing I had just finished and then graphed the picture of another rather ascent using his eyes to tell me to take it seriously. I decided that I should stop for lunch and not just rely on the few remaining snacks I had.
I stopped at a lovely little village that had an old painted yellow racing bike sitting out front as part of the patio decorations. That’s all I needed to convince that this was the place. I sat at one of about ten tables on the patio. Me on one side and a group of about eight macho-looking men on the other side. I am macho in my own way, but not tough and grizzled like a few of these men. A couple of them had orange vests on and I quickly assumed that it was a road crew. I ordered a Greek salad (what else!) and of the three Greek salads I have eaten in my life this one far outclassed the other two. Honesty, if I had eaten a thousand Greek salads I am sure this would have still taken top prize. The dressing was a perfect complement to the cucumbers, Greek olives, and fresh tomatoes. But, what really made it was a slab of marinated feta cheese that I broke off in chunks and forked with the rest of the salad. My taste buds jumped at each bite and I felt like a little slice of heaven had fallen down on this spot.Still, there was an awkward tension in the air. The oldest son of the family that ran the restaurant seemed uncomfortable with me, my bike, or where it was placed. He kept talking in Greek to his younger siblings in what seemed like an expression of displeasure. Each time I could feel the rest of his family telling him to calm down. “It will be alright,” they seemed to be assuring him. Then a pickup truck pulled up in front of the patio. Three men immediately sprang into action and helped carry an injured dog to a shady spot. The restaurant family grabbed loads of paper towels. Through the gap between a trellis and a garage door I could see fresh, bright red blood soaking up the towels.Another truck pulled up. A man, just as macho, but with a significant pot-belly hanging over his belt emerged and quickly found a seat with the other men. The wary oldest son apparently knew what to do. He entered the restaurant and came out with a cold Coke, straw and glass. The heavy-set man took a few sips and then wandered just off the patio about fifteen feet from me. He leaned over in the best 90 degree position his belly would allow him and began spitting. It wasn’t long before the spitting expanded to a light, but constant stream of vomit. Suddenly the dam broke and a week’s worth of good Greek food and drink pooled at his feet. “What the hell,” I was beginning to think. “It’s like I am in an emergency ward with not enough doctors to go around.”
It was at this moment that I realized that the orange vests were hunting vests as I surveyed further and also saw a couple of pairs of camouflage pants. I was sitting with men from a hunting party and the dog had probably gotten injured out there in the forest. The vomiting man I mistook for being macho, but was probably the only one with a wounded inner child.I continued to eat and watch the drama unfold. Two more trucks pulled up in succession. Now the men were getting excited, almost giddy. One man pulled out his GoPro video camera and stood behind the tailgate of the first truck. Here was the prize. A large wild boar was lifted out by four men and placed on the ground. The next truck produced one large boar and one that seemed too small to pass as game. Finally, a jeep pulled up and it elicited a few cheers and laughs from the men. This jeep too had a large, dead boar and had tied it to the back of the jeep in the same way that you might tie down a large spare tire.Scene 5: Miscellaneous
There was still one major climb before I could reach Ioannina, and if I could reach it. It felt good to know that I had supplies to stealth camp for the night. And this area easily lends itself to that. Every kilometer I was eyeing some little flat spot in ashady culvert thirty yards off the side of the road. Before I reached the top I stopped to save a Frisbee-sized turtle who was making his way across the road at an uncomfortably slow pace. He didn’t seem to appreciate it, but I am sure he’ll recognize his lack of gratitude later. I am camping on the side of the lake in town and thinking seriously of staying an extra day. The cycling was wonderful and punishing as I completed nearly 100 kilometers and over 3,000 feet in climbing. I believe there will be many more days like this in Greece. “All is well, all is wonderful, all is unexpectedly rich”.
Our Religious DNA
As I write this tonight I can feel the first shudders of the ferry pulling away from the docks for an all night ride to Igoumenitsa, Greece. The last two days have been good for my mental health. Today, after a better than average breakfast at the hotel that didn’t force me to go foraging for more food, I picked a bench in the middle of a cobblestone square and just sat. For over two hours I didn’t budge. It was glorious! With the exception of trying to locate a small grocery store (another unsuccessful 90 minute excursion) I had no agenda but to sit, observe and let my thoughts catch up to my body and location.
I almost immediately began breathing more deeply. Tonight as the ferry slices its way toward Greece I am shifting my thoughts from what could go wrong (which is really foreign to the Rumi way) to what opportunities lie before me. I found myself beginning to worry about arriving in Igoumenitsa at 6:00 a.m., possibly with little sleep (we’ll see how that goes with fifty teenagers drinking on board!), and no knowledge of the city, how to get food, and whether it makes sense to immediately start cranking the pedals eastward.But, I stopped myself! Being there at 6:00 a.m. may leave me vulnerable, but it also leaves me in a port city at sunrise! It is just as likely that I’ll be able to find a nice spot on the water with my stash of nuts and a juice and watch the sun peek over the mountains as it sends veils of light onto the sea. It is even possible that I might be able to tour the town before traffic starts and enjoy a rare treat that others would not experience. Maybe there will even be a Starbucks open! Okay, I am delirious.While the barrage of logistical issues certainly attempted to knock me from my moorings, the real story is that I did survive each one of them and have worked out the most critical of them. The lesson? Maybe I can relax now with the knowledge that issues will likely persist to one degree or another, but that I will be able to handle them. In the end, I can believe that “all will be well.”
I spent much of the day working through the experience of being in Italy. Did you know that it is a thoroughly Catholic country? I wasn’t aware of how Italian everyone was. I am not sure why it surprised me so, but I think it probably exposes my utterly American experience of so much diversity and pluralism. Maybe at some level I expected an Italian version of America. You know, we have our hamburger joints that speak USA all over their menu, but there are also Thai, Chinese, Mexican, and a growing number of sushi restaurants to balance out our American cuisine. I didn’t see that here. Ristorante and Pizzeria seemed like synonymous terms.I have just started to reflect on what the experience of Italy, the Vatican and the smaller Catholic parishes contribute to this Rome to Rumi theme. I wanted to start in Rome as I felt like it represented the very head of the institution of church as we know it in the West. What I didn’t expect was that I wouldn’t be able to separate out the Vatican and the Catholic Church from the rest of Italian culture.It appears that the Catholic Church in Italy is suffering from some of the same challenges that the Church as a whole is in the West. With the exception of the two pilgrimage sites (Pietralcina and San Giovanni Rotondo) attendance was often dismal at Catholic masses. I arrived late to a Wednesday evening mass in Terracina and increased the attendance by 50%, making it three of us, plus the priest. In another small village the mass was attended by about fifteen people who appeared to be from about four separate families. All but two were women. Just around the corner about fifty, mostly older, men were in the town square drinking beer and enjoying village conversation.
But, unlike America where attendance is a good indication of the place of church in one’s life or community, that doesn’t seem to be true in Italy. Despite low activity in the daily rhythm of the Church one can feel that the Church and the community share a dependence on each other that is foreign to all but some of our most rural communities in America. Imagine Wisconsin without the Packers. They would fall apart!This is where there seems to be a thread between what I experienced in Italy and the Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. In Italy the Catholic Church is more about identity than it is church participation or involvement. It feels more like a cultural identifier much like a person who is Jewish by birth rather than by choice or even belief.Rome to Rumi is not on the radar of Italians. It’s not their story. They don’t seem to share the same angst with regard to wrestling with their spiritual identity. I think the Rome to Rumi, spiritual-but-not-religious phenomenon is largely a product of American sensibilities and, even deeper than that, a post-Protestant development. We need to remember that we Americans came from those who were called “protesters”. If Italians are rooted in the story of the Catholic Church, we Americans have our identity largely rooted in the story of those who continue to protest for the sake of our own individual, political, religious and spiritual autonomy. And remember who we protested against!We Protest-ants (I know, you protest at even being called that. I get it!) change our religious affiliation and spiritual orientation (remember, I am now an “agnostic Christian mystic) every time our beliefs evolve. But, for Italian Catholics it doesn’t feel like it is about belief. It is about religious DNA and identity and no matter how many times you change your mind, you can’t change the “family genes” with which you are born.What does all this mean? For now the experience in Italy has helped to contextualize this pilgrimage. I started out feeling like the Rome to Rumi theme (moving from institutional forms of religion to individualized spirituality) was largely a Western world phenomenon. I still think that is the case, but Italy has reminded me just how deep religious DNA can run in a culture and the spiritual, but not religious demographic isn’t easily apparent here.
In a few hours I will arrive in Greece with no friggin plan except a general direction, a need to find food, and a trust that it will all work out. If I can keep my present “All will be well” attitude I think this should start to get very fun. The mountains are coming and I just LOVE to climb mountains and scream down the other side. That’s my Rocky Mountain born and raised religious DNA showing through!
What Would Rumi Do?
I am wondering what Rumi would do in my situation? I can feel the signs of mental exhaustion setting in as the almost daily scramble for food, a place to rest my head, keep my technology working, and negotiate traffic has taken its toll.
Thankfully, I have a couple of days to reflect on this. Thursday, I arrived in Giovinazzo (not Ginvinazzo, as I guessed before. I might have been subconsciously been thinking gin and tonics!) when I opened the message from Monastery Stays about my two day stay being cancelled. They actually had sent it the day before, but I hadn’t opened it partly out of busyness and partly because they had a habit of sending daily messages to confirm, reconfirm and remind!This once again left me scurrying to rethink my plan. Bari was just 15 kilometers south of where I was staying and also has a ferry route over to Greece. I decided that there was no sense in riding all the way to Brindisi without accommodations. I wound my way through the quieter streets of Bari (which was no easy trick this time!), located the ferry terminal, and purchased the first available ticket to Greece (Friday at 8:00 p.m.). With a little luck I found a reasonably priced hotel within two kilometers of the terminal. Today I will have about ten hours in town waiting for my departure time and will use that to gather my thoughts and take the edge off of the disorientation that I am feeling. Plus I am hoping to find some gas or propane for my backpacking stove.
Basically, what I have to work through is that when I planned this pilgrimage I was very intentional about wanting the rhythm to be “ride and reflection, ride and reflection.” In Rome I got the reflection part right in that I stayed in one spot for four days. I also have gotten the riding part right. With the exception of that one mother of a hill riding up to San Giovanni Rotondo, the riding has been physically easy and enjoyable. The wrinkle that hasn’t quite gotten ironed out yet is how to diminish the effects of the daily logistical scramble in order to have time to reflect and ride.What I don’t want is to get to Konya and only be able to say, “I made it!” I want to arrive there as if it is only the “Amen” to a long, thoughtful, soulful prayer of gratitude. Right now there is too much risk that I will arrive beaten, bruised and exhausted.
I am going to stay open to the fact that Greece may provide a different experience. The word from cyclists is that there is lots of space for wild camping. The people are very accommodating and the monasteries are known for allowing pilgrims to camp on their property.Italy has been great in many ways and I look forward to processing the experience in coming days. But, there were only two sections where I felt at ease about not worrying about where I would stay that night—along the west coast where hotels and campgrounds were numerous and in a small section just before San Bartolomeo de Galdo where I considered setting up my tent among the forested hillsides that appeared to belong to no one, but God. The rest of the time I have felt like I have to keep moving. The towns and cities are too expensive to stay long and stealth camping is virtually impossible in this populated country.I wrote early on that on this pilgrimage I needed to “Train for Enjoyment” and today and on the ferry I plan to take the time to establish a plan that provides for more opportunity to enjoy what is before me rather than to feel the need to overcome the obstacles that show up. And, of course (this is part of adopting a Rumi-esque perspective), I need to discern how much of those are real obstacles and how much is only my attitude toward them! I may need to change my circumstances. I may also just need to change my perspective. Rumi reminds us in “The Guest House”: “Be grateful for whatever comes, for each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”Here is what I do know for sure at this point:
- I want to see the monasteries on the top of the cliffs in Meteora.
- I want to ride as far into the sky as they will allow me on Mount Olympus.
- I want to visit the historic sites of Thessalonika and see the legacy that the apostle Paul left.
- I want to experience the shift from West to East in Istanbul as I encounter the Greek Orthodox Church and the Blue Mosque of Islam.
- I want to arrive at Rumi’s Tomb with a grateful heart and a soul full of song.
Now the question is how to do that! Ten hours on a park bench and fourteen hours in the ferry may be just the gift I need.