Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive. {John Eldredge}
With grateful hearts and calloused feet, we turn our eyes toward home. Speaking of eyes, am I or am I not staring at Wanida in the photo above? Hold that thought. You see, we've bittersweetly come to the end of our story here, and closure calls for revelation and resolution, so time travel with us back to the beginning in February--no, not six and a half months ago, but eight and a half years ago in February of 2000.
What's the punchline? That the ingredients of our relationship and adventures started coming together not on February 19th when we departed LAX, nor a year ago when we began charting a course around the globe, but on Valentine's Day weekend in the year 2000 when, over a year before we ever met, our hearts shared the same camera space! Once upon a time well into our relationship, Wanida caught a glimpse of the serendipitous pic above before she lost it, but this summer she worked hard to track it down again. What you see are the two of us from our college years--two strangers at the time living in different parts of the state--at Hume Lake Winter Camp. I just happened to be in the vicinity on this particular night when she and her friend posed for a photo op. I suppose we could have met, could have connected, but we didn't. It wasn't until sixteen months later when I moved to San Diego in June of 2001 that we were finally introduced! Revelation: We were on a collision course with each other, so from early on we started practicing how to be in photos and make memories together. :)
As far as finding resolution goes, I'll ask again now: Am I or am I not staring at Wanida? We disagree. Wanida believes it to be obvious that my eyes are gazing at her, while I argue that it's oh so hard to tell, especially with blue jacket girl and her beige hat clearly in my line of sight. :) Let us know your verdict. In the meantime, we'll debate the issue as we conclude this fairytale and fly home in a few hours. The end of the story is that we lived happily ever after.
When we purchased our round the world tickets we were given twenty flights to jump around the world at our leisure. It was perfect. After we charted out our flight plan, we discovered that we had one extra Europe leg, a bonus. Halt. Hold on. We had a problem. Both of us had very different ideas on how to spend the bonus segment. Joe was all for Zurich, Switzerland and I was pushing for beautiful Moscow, Russia. Why Moscow? Yeah, I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's a strange desire to visit the desolate and dreary over the dramatic beauties of the Swiss Alps. You'll be happy to know, Joe won.
Last Friday, we left our desert summer home, and four hours later we touched down onto a different planet. Snow covered mountains, lush green valleys, and quaint little log cabins dotted the landscape. Within minutes of our arrival we met up with our escorts (our escorts home), as we affectionately call them. The Heinrichses have made the trip over to join us for a week of re-socializing, re-engaging, and are kindly re-acquainting us with speaking in non-broken and normal paced English. They have listened to us ramble on about our stories and reminded us of all the wonderful relationships that await us at home.
There's not much left to do here. The piano is gone, the sun has set, and we've said a few goodbyes, so all seems quieter now. Soon we will pull down some pictures, collect our things from around the apartment, pack our bags, and double check all the important documents. Like I said, there's not much left to do before we put our heads to our pillows and slow our hearts and minds for one more peaceful night's sleep in Amman, Jordan. In the morning we will rise with the sun and welcome the dawn of a fresh season for us.
In the waiting there is a sort of beauty--an acknowledgment that behind us is the new history of our lives, and before us is the opportunity to live out of the depth of that experience. We find ourselves simply nodding, like people do when they understand a truth without having to speak it. The truth is that it's time to go home. This epic journey is leading us back to San Diego, California, USA--not just San Diego, though, for in the words of our brother-in-law, we continue to be led in the pursuit of "...somewhere much greater, the home of your heart, the bosom of the living God, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob."
See you after one sweet week in Switzerland. Check back for the end of the story.
It is nice out today! I've said it four times already- but today, while I stand out on the balcony, it feels like I'm at the beach! Yes, very random, I know. Because I couldn't be more smack dab in the middle of a desert. But the sunshine, the strong cool wind, yes, if I close my eyes I can go there. I feel like I am sitting on the edge of a giant ocean. I will let my mind transform the unending traffic below into beautiful crashing waves! Oh, here come the waves now. Some waves are noisier than others, but they sure do fly by! As much as I try, I can not seem to transform that man's voice. Yes that one that trills and tramples all over my beach dream. There are no calls to prayer in my beach get away. Well perhaps he could be the lifeguards calling out their safety warnings? Nope, not working for me. The call to prayer brings me back to the very clear fact- I am nowhere near a beach. But, I will be soon!
We are counting down the days- we have two more days at our little Arab summer home. It's hard to believe it's time to go home. I have loved this place. I have felt so very comfortable, safe, relaxed, creative, and in touch with a new voice inside me. Maybe I learned something along this crazy journey of ours, maybe I didn't. And I love that I can say that. Because my first reaction tells me that I need to share something significant... that I need to prove myself and prove the reason for this journey. But I quickly realize that I'm only trying to find my own significance in the process. Maybe, this is all I needed to learn. That I can honestly say "Maybe we learned something, maybe we didn't learn anything- but I'm okay with that, because we had the greatest time!" Like I've said many times along this journey- "This trip isn't necessarily about accomplishing something, it's just something that needs to be accomplished." Or how I described it in Santorini to Joe, "This journey has always been on my recipe card of life. It was always something that was intended and necessary for the full makings of my life." Ahhh, with a deep breath and a true smile to self- I am thankful. Life feels so full today.
Showering was more important than usual last night after we got back from our two day desert excursion to southern Jordan. It was necessary--and it felt oh so good--to scrub from our skin a thick layer of red sand, a symbolic reminder of another layer of memorable life experience. We enjoyed the company of our good friend Mohammad as we accomplished a whirlwind tour of Aqaba, Wadi Rum, and Petra across the extremes of summer in the middle of the Middle East desert. It was fun to follow in the footsteps of Indiana Jones on the path to Petra, but first we bussed our way to Aqaba for a dip in the Red Sea, then camped like the Bedouins among the dramatic cliffs of Wadi Rum.
The highlight for me was our evening to morning stay in Wadi Rum, a protected area of desert wilderness with contrasting sand valleys and sandstone peaks. I like rock climbing, so I was happy to scale a couple of piles of carved sandstone, first for the sunset, then again when Mohammad woke me up to catch the sunrise. Between the times that the sun was painting the mountains red, we squeezed in some good conversation and a fairly comfortable night's sleep in a canvas tent under the blur of a million stars. I can still feel the warm desert breeze blowing on my face and, though it eventually carried me away from Wadi Rum, it was nice to have nowhere else to be that night.
Have you ever found yourself on the edge of your seat while archers fire their arrows at the far away bull's eye? Or felt the excitement of a judo wrestler flipping her opponent over her shoulder? Ever seen the crazy intensity of a Chinese ping pong-ist? Or enjoyed the beauty of a birdie smashed down onto a badminton court? Perhaps you've missed the barbarian madness of the Russian handball team? Ever dreamed of watching hours of greco-roman wrestling? I bet you have. Or how about watching the frightening faces of hefty women as they throw themselves under massive amounts of weights. That's right... the beauty of weight lifting. Thailand won a gold in weight lifting; made me especially proud. Or our new personal favorite... each time the competitor jumps sky high my stomach sinks! Then he flips and flies like backyard children only dream of! The excitement of the bouncy trampoline! Yes, my friends, these are the Olympic events that have filled our television screen this last week. Sure, the swimming and gymnastics are on, occasionally, and if we are really lucky we'll even catch it in English. But, the networks serve a different audience over here. Channel after channel, we're getting our fill of Olympic events we have never even heard of! We have found a new love for the Olympic little guys, and we're cheering them on, even the folks running the odd and funky Steeple Chase. Bet you never watched that before. Come to the Middle East, you can find all the Olympic goodies here.
We're alive! We visited volatile and historic Israel--probably the most controversial piece of real estate in the world--and lived to tell about it. Let's just say, it's incredible.
Most people travel halfway around the world and spend weeks in the Promised Land (no doubt there is much to experience); we're already in the neighborhood, plus we felt ambitious and had saving money on our minds, so we did it in three days and four nights. Accomplishing all that we set out to do was easier said than done, requiring not a wasted waking moment and miles upon miles of walking in our sandals (we mostly traveled first century style). On our first full day, we conquered the Old City of Jerusalem, one square kilometer of concentrated historic and spiritual sites. Instead of explaining everything in detail, we'll let you look stuff up on Wikipedia, but highlights included the Via Dolorosa, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Western Wall / Temple Mount / Dome of the Rock, a tour of the underground tunnels, and watching the sunset from the Mount of Olives. For orientation, just at the tip of Wanida's silly right foot in the photo above is the famous Dome of the Rock. Truth be told, no one claims certainty when it comes to the exact locations of the majority of the Christian places of interest, but for sure Jerusalem has been the stage for so many significant events, so treading on "holy ground" and using one's imagination proves to be quite meaningful.
Day two began with about four hours at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Remembrance Memorial. The Jewish State has done a truly impressive job putting together one of the most moving and carefully crafted museums in the world. We learned a lot and were heartbroken a lot. In the afternoon, we boarded a bus for Tel Aviv and, after rush hour traffic, our eyes feasted once again on the oasis of the Mediterranean. We didn't bring our swimmies (mistake--the water was inviting), but we caught another sunset as we reclined in a pair of beach chairs.
We knew we were in for an adventure on our third and final full day as we took advantage of the reliable Israeli bus system again. Our destination was about two and a half hours north next to the Sea of Galilee. Mount Arbel, one half of a mountain split into two after an earthquake, came highly recommended as a day trip by both an old friend of Wanida's and our Jerusalem host. To summarize, the day was scorching hot and the summit was a chore to reach, but the achievement resulted in spectacular views of the entire Lower Galilee region and a fun climb down. Our circuit from the bus stop, up to the top, then to the town of Tiberias consisted of about five miles worth of walking in and out of the National Park and even three hitchhiking legs. We know, we know, don't try this at home. We cooled our bodies and replenished our spirits with a short dip in the Sea of Galilee before dinner. Unlike Jesus, we did not walk on it, we sank.
The Israel landscape is a beautiful one. Much of what we saw reminded us of parts of good old California. The people are a little more difficult to deal with. In spite of the approximately six billion dollars in aid that the US supplies to Israel each and every year, the citizens weren't as happy to see us as we thought they would be. In other words, no one had a problem cutting in front of us in line, or ramming their shoulders into ours as our paths crossed on the sidewalk, or making a scrunched and disapproving face instead of giving us directions. Perhaps it's fair to say that Israelis are hardheaded and aggressive people. We're not surprised, then, that they're willing to endure oppression and propagate conflict in their struggle for survival. It's worthy of mentioning that, in as much as we experienced it, the tension is in the air in Israel--religious and political. Especially in Jerusalem, the presence of Christianity and the promise of peace are overshadowed by Islam, Judaism, and the present day politics of borders and the right to exist.
One more story: Israel imposes mandatory military service on everyone once they turn eighteen. As a result, teenage soldiers with big guns slung over their shoulders are everywhere; our bus from Tiberias back to Jerusalem was no exception. One such soldier fell asleep in the row behind us, I fell asleep in my aisle seat, and Wanida fell asleep on my shoulder with her head in front of the gap between the seats. We were all awoken when she screamed, "Ouch", and started rubbing the back of her head. Military man's gun had slipped from its oh so safe leaning position, fallen through the crack in the seats, and the end of the barrel had whacked Wanida on her noggen. Does that not sound scary and dangerous?! It's just another example of the fact that, around Israel, war is always on your mind. Get it?
According to Tripadvisor, our hometown of San Diego has 260 points of interest. Contrast that to our current hometown of Amman, Jordan, where Tripadvisor, by a big stretch, counts 9. This week we took an outing to point of interest #9.
Together, just after a shwarma lunch, we grabbed a taxi and headed toward Amman's old downtown (headquarters of the world for pirated DVDs and high-end name brands for under a dollar- Christmas presents are coming your way!). We climbed the main hill in the very heart of downtown, and at the top we found Amman's #9 tourist attraction: the Roman Citadel. For about 3 bucks each, we got to see a Hercules temple, a cistern, baths and a church built in the 2nd century. Most ruins we've seen along the journey have been roped off and protected against tourist invasions. But here in Amman (the ancient biblical city of Philadelphia) things are, let's say, a bit more low key. There aren't any ropes to protect the ruins, and there aren't any ropes to protect the tourists either! (There are some deadly drop offs right around the perimeter of the ancient walls!) So, Joe and I carefully roamed this hilltop gem and took in some of the most beautiful views Amman has to offer. For a long while it was quiet, with only occasional honking horns to remind us of the congested city below. Then, in a moment, that all changed. The skies filled; the sounds echoed from hillside to hillside, pouring into the valleys below. It was time for prayer, and you're completely clueless if you don't know it. The mosques dominate the landscape, they are everywhere, and their music is mesmerizing. In that moment, perched above this old city, we listened. The voices sang over the valleys, singing of God and his greatness, to make haste to come and pray, and how nothing compares to God. It was a powerful moment, and a pretty one too.
Tomorrow, we are finally making the 44 mile trek down these desert hills, through the West Bank, and over to Israel, and for 5 days we will explore this spiritual and controversial land. We know, we know, we'll be careful.
Allow me to introduce you to the new voice telling the story of West / Middle East dynamics. His name is Samir and he drives a taxi in Amman, Jordan.
It was Samir who I happened to flag down for my cross town trip the other day. I quickly realized that here was a man--a small, smiley man--who actually spoke less English than I speak Arabic. That's not saying much, but time for me to practice. With few words, we covered the basics about our names, homes, families, etc. Samir, a Palestinian, then took it to the next level by pointing to his prayer rug and asking me if I am a Muslim and whether I believe in one God. I knew he wouldn't understand much, but I responded by saying something to the effect of, "Well, yes, one God, but I follow Jesus."--half in Arabic, half in English. I freaked out and almost jumped out of the car when he then flashed a knife. No, I'm lying, he did not do that! Sorry about the scare. But doesn't our perspective tell us to half expect a story like that? What Samir really did was continue to smile and use his hands and Arabic to communicate, "You and me, friends, brothers." Beyond that, he spent the remainder of our time together in the taxi trying to make me understand that any Arab-American conflict (Israel was his example) is among the governments, but that between the people there are no problems. Accordingly, we smiled again and shook hands fondly before I got out of the car. Once more before he sped off, he waved out the window to me: "Bye Joe."
It's slightly unrealistic to think that everyone everywhere expresses the sentiment of Samir's heart, but maybe, instead of driving a taxi, he should be using his voice to influence more people in the global community.
Although we remember with fondness our rainy days in New Zealand, we have since come a long way in terms of time, distance, and weather. We are happy to report that it has been exactly two months (May 19th in Rome) since we last experienced even a cloudy day. Yes, it's been quite "enlightening" to live life sunny side up. In other news, we're also marking exactly five months (February 19th) since we left home, plus we're halfway through our time in Jordan--less than seven weeks left before we land in San Diego, California, USA! How do we feel about that? Ask us in seven weeks. Next up is a highly anticipated visit to our neighbor, Israel. We've pushed it back twice now due to an overall unwillingness to deal with any sort of travel logistics, but sooner or later, we'll make it.
On a more serious note, please take a short time to know and remember a special little guy by clicking here. Our nephew's cousin, Jackson, is barely six months old, and this Thursday he'll be undergoing open heart surgery. Please pray.
Sorry, no fun videos nor big stories today. (Although, Wanida did insist on one picture below.) Instead, a thought provoking, question raising, answer seeking post for your consideration. Fun!
Generation after generation, the relationship between the West and the Middle East has been increasingly steeped in issues of oil, politics, military moves, the media, and Israel-Palestine. I'll risk a generalization and say that now, post-9/11, the average American's interest in and attitude toward the Middle East have deteriorated, except of course for questions of our own security and prosperity. Are we fully aware, though, of just how far we've come in our awareness and understanding of the Arab Muslim world--or should I say, just how far we have to go? In an article written in 1980 (that would have been just as relevant if written yesterday), one man seems to have summarized it.
Edward Sa'id (Sa-eed) was a Palestinian American author/writer and Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University before he died of Leukemia in 2003. Born in Jerusalem in 1935, he described himself as a "Christian wrapped in a Muslim culture", and he was an outspoken supporter of Palestinian rights. Sa'id is best known for his book Orientalism (1978), but two years later he wrote an article in The Nation in which he analyzed the West's perspective of the Middle East: "So far as the United States seems to be concerned, it is only a slight overstatement to say that Moslems and Arabs are essentially seen as either oil suppliers or potential terrorists. Very little of the detail, the human density, the passion of Arab-Moslem life has entered the awareness of even those people whose profession it is to report the Arab world. What we have instead is a series of crude, essentialized caricatures of the Islamic world presented in such a way as to make that world vulnerable to military aggression."
I know what you're thinking: "Nice legs." To focus on those, though, is to miss our Dead Sea story, so stop staring and keep reading. Here's the story: We went to the Dead Sea. Not enough of a story? Let's review, then, some of the fun facts that make the Dead Sea quite an interesting and unique place. From Amman, its shores are only about 30 minutes away by car, and doing the drive involves descending from an altitude of about 2,500 feet to the lowest point on the surface of Earth, 1,378 feet below sea level. The waters of the Dead Sea are the second saltiest in the world with approximately 30 percent salinity, making it about eight and a half times saltier than the ocean. What this means is that floating on the surface is probably like no other swimming experience you've ever had; bring a book, bring a drink, but don't bother bringing a raft. Bobbing in the water is a strange sensation, especially because the water itself feels different--slimy and slippery like baby oil. Everything about the Dead Sea and the climate of the region, from the minerals to the sunshine to the temperature to the humidity to the barometric pressure, is supposed to be therapeutic and beneficial to the human body. It should come as no surprise, then, that the two of us have been transformed by our visit into superhumans with many new and unnatural powers. Now that's a good story!
We met Hassan in the dairy section of the grocery store. As an employee, with great English, he was determined to help us find sour cream. Up and down the aisles, this search became the foundation of our friendship. When the sour cream was discovered, we had already exchanged numbers and he had invited us to go out with him to his home. It was settled, he was picking us up at 7pm. Together we cruised through the Jordanian hills in his father's 1976 BMW, and about 30 minutes later we arrived into his neighboring town of Salt. At the door, wewere introduced to his father, mother, and two of his sisters (a brother and four other sisters also make up this big family). It soon became very obvious, they wereeager and delighted to play host, and we were their honored guests! It began with Arab coffee, a coffee so intense they only serve it in half ounce shots. On their best silver trays, they presented Pepsi, pears, water, chocolates, mango juice, tea and watermelon. As far as we knew, to reject any offers would be offensive, so we carefully and strategically managed to consume all the offered confections and drinks. During our third hour together, in fancy little glasses, they presented us with infamous Turkish coffee, and after the coffee the evening continued. This sweet family sat with us for hours; without understanding any English, they were committed to being proper hosts. Eventually I whispered to Joe "Do you think we should go soon?" But we both agreed, that might be rude, so we just sat there content, enjoying the kind hospitality of this wonderful Jordanian family and the warmth of this quiet little town. Finally, in our fifth hour together (and just before midnight) another round of coffee circled our way. Like any good guests, we drank up... and with our limited (but humorous) Arabic vocabulary, we continued to fuel the conversation. As another caffeine rush subsided, Hassan said "If you are ready to go, just let me know." Without wanting to appear too eager, we waited a few more minutes, then started our goodbyes. It wasn't until one week later that welearned a very important lesson in Arab hospitality: When the host serves coffee, it's a signal that the evening is coming to a close, and the guest knows it's time to go after the coffee is gone. Our gracious hosts catered to us for almost five hours and through multiple rounds of "this is your clue to go" coffee--if only we had known!
On our third day in Amman, we met these two Arab girls: Rania and Tamara. From the moment we met, they have showered us with kindness. They have gifted our apartment with DVDs of the TV show Friends and big red heart shaped pillows "to make you feel more at home." At a mere twenty years old, they have captured our hearts. To celebrate the girls finishing their 2nd year of university, I offered to make a special lunch. Rania requested Fettuccine Alfredo. I looked at the cooking light recipe, but to me it read like chicken scratch. So, I invited the girls to come make Fettuccine Alfredo with me! Together, we chopped up garlic, guessed on butter, milk, flour... and soon enough it began taking on the resemblance of Fettuccine Alfredo! Rania added the parsley garnishing and Tamara set the table, and together the four of us (including Joe) sat around the table and enjoyed our home cooked meal. Okay, here's the real truth, not all my cooking stories have been as pretty as that one. I offered Tamara a taste from my third attempt at oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. She carefully examined my rounded oat creation and kindly took a nibble. With a big smile she said "perhaps you need a new recipe?" and walked herself over to the trashcan. Living overseas makes us miss places like Costco, where all our meals are a simple 10 minutes away. I have no choice but to become domestic. It's been a road of discovery for me; and I've been dealt my share of challenges. There is no oven... only a toaster oven. We have no measuring cups, spoons, etc... everything is in pinches, handfuls, and the very accurate "pure guess-timation." Don't even get me started about metric conversions. I've learned that butter is a very important element in cookies, that lasagna noodles stick together in strainers, and that yeast is very high maintenance. Here's my request: send your recipes this way! But here's the catch, please explain everything in terms like "3 small handfuls" "big pinches" and "about 2 cups." Anything that needs precision is a sure disaster. Share the recipe in a comment, for others to enjoy too. The girls loved cooking, and when I hinted at cooking together more, they were all for it. Later that evening, Rania sent me this text message: "When I pray, I don't see God, but I know he listens. As such, when I text you I don't see you but I know you think of me and smile." I was doing just that.
"What in the world are we doing here?" "Why have we committed to spending a summer living in Amman, Jordan?" It's not that we ourselves are still struggling for answers to these questions, but people from all over the place continue to scratch their heads and ask, so we thought we'd spell out the method to the madness of our being here.
It's been a while now, but one day, post-9/11, a seed was planted--a seed that eventually produced fruits of interest in all things Arab and Muslim. Times are turbulent, true, but moving in the direction of the Middle East started sounding more beneficial than turning our backs to it. In the context of this trip, we decided to devote about half of it to engaging with the elements of one Arab Muslim society by immersing ourselves in it. On the surface it may smack at being foolish and idealistic to think that it will matter, but we're maintaining the faith to believe in a few ideas: Real, personal relationships between the West and the Middle East have been replaced by politics and the media, and unfortunately, stereotypes are being enhanced instead of eliminated. Also, many misunderstandings between those who follow Jesus and those who follow Mohammad have resulted in a rift of fear and conflict. Perhaps, then, an open-minded approach to building a bridge between us and the Arab Muslim world through friendship and genuine conversation is important in light of today's global cultural climate, and at the very least we can enrich our own lives in the pursuit.
Jordan is a monarchy (quite a progressive one at that), and at the end of March, Queen Rania issued a challenge via YouTube for our different worlds to be more connected. Below is her optimistic and positive video in the spirit of dissolving stereotypes. In the words of one of my new Jordanian friends, Mohammad, "It's the time to understand each other."
Turks are warm and welcoming people, and likewise our time in Istanbul has been sunny and sweet. It's also been characterized by our awareness of tomorrow's imminent transition. We are, admittedly, a little burnt out on the backpack life, but nonetheless we maintain a sense of bittersweet closure as we share a smoke from the water pipe on our final travel night. From east to west and back as far as the Middle East, all five of our senses have feasted on every experience between two horizons and under the sun. Tomorrow we leave Istanbul, and leave behind 107 days worth of memories worthy of reliving. We don't really leave it all behind though, for with us we carry these nuggets of life into season two as we settle down in Amman, Jordan. Getting here has definitely been half the fun, and being that we're about to "arrive", tomorrow our pilgrimage road becomes an Arab city street in a home away from home.
In Istanbul, we're marveling at the 36 hour timeline of events that finally and surprisingly brought us here. From noon Friday until midnight Saturday/Sunday, we endured sleeplessness, hopelessness, and visions of hitchhiking nightmares that we thought were sure to befall us. Triumphant after a day and a half of back breaking pack carrying, like turtles in a marathon, we finally closed the door of our Istanbul hotel room, and gloriously closed the door on this travel chapter. The point of this post is to tell the tale; to read about it may take you almost as much time as we spent living it. Friday, noon. We check out of our Mykonos hotel and, with our bags on our backs (and fronts), we brave the blustery island wind as we head down to town for lunch. Maybe we would have never moved on had we known what it was going to take.
2:15pm. In uneventful fashion, we board our ferry for a five and a half hour cruise back to Athens, Piraeus Port. The trip involves playing a lot of cards and sleeping on our arms. Let's go over what the plan was. Based on much internet research and some overthinking, we believed that we would take an overnight train from Athens to Thessaloniki, then catch another train on Saturday morning from Thessaloniki to Istanbul for arrival at 9:30 that night. It was almost that easy.
8:00pm. Back in Athens, the metro to the train station is cheaper and easier to use than we expect. We have an hour until the international ticket office closes (we didn't know that we actually had two), but inconsequentially we're above ground again in 20 minutes. The ticket office is easy to spot and unapologetic about being the bearer of some bad news.
8:30pm. There's now only one train per day to Istanbul departing in the afternoon? The man with alcohol on his breath presents us with a piece of paper outlining the schedule for traveling by train to Istanbul. There are indeed two options, but the sheet has been torn in half, and the other option (our method of choice) has been inexplicably and recently shelved--literally trashed. We talk to the domestic ticket office, she also talks to drunk international man, she talks to us again and offers no consolation, then we check with the bus terminal and consider spending $500 to fly instead.
9:30pm. Well, we don't want to unpack and pack again by staying in Athens, so we stick to our original expectation and purchase tickets for the overnight train to Thessaloniki. The one train per day schedule applies to the international leg from Thessaloniki to Istanbul. What this means for us is that now we'll have a 13 hour day in Thessaloniki before boarding a second overnight train at 8:00pm Saturday. We won't get to Istanbul until Sunday morning, but hey, here's to being cheap and on a budget and saving money by sleeping on the train two nights in a row.
11:59pm. On time--and prepared for the long road ahead--we depart. We make three Greek soldiers get out of our seats, but then befriend them and make good conversation in English for two and a half hours, then we sleep.
Saturday, 7:00am. Startled by our sudden arrival into Thessaloniki, we gather our stuff and squint at the dawn of a new day. Now what? We pass the international ticket window and figure that we'd be wise to check out the situation for our next night train. Maybe we'll bus it from here, who knows? The woman is kind, but provides only the expected information until, as we're walking away, she calls us back and informs us that there's a 7:15am train leaving for the Greece-Turkey border where we can then make a connection the rest of the way to Istanbul. Exactly! Why couldn't she have been in Athens last night to tell this to drunk international man? We're over Thessaloniki, give us two tickets.
7:15am. In hand we have our tickets and the following supplies purchased in a hurry: two chocolate croissants, one bag of oregano flavored chips, a 500 mL Coke Zero, and a pack of Werther's Originals. Ah, a balanced breakfast. There is no platform information anywhere, so we run to a station attendant and ask for the train to Pythion; Pythion, as we'll later learn, is a train depot, an outpost, in the farthest frontier of the Greek countryside. The station attendant doesn't even know our train, so he asks someone else who looks at us, says "Pythion?", and points to the same train we got off only 15 minutes ago.
8:00am. The train's rolling, but we're not quite sure about the direction in which it's rolling. Nonetheless, we have confirmation from four people that it ends at Pythion (well, at the Greece-Turkey border, at least). A man checks our tickets and sort of huffs and puffs as he says, "Istanbul?" He proceeds to tell us that there is no train to Pythion and that we'll need to catch a bus at the end of the line in Alexandroupolis, then he returns to checking tickets. What? Is he conspiring with drunk international man?
8:45am. My nails are nearly chewed off as the train clunks and clatters us toward our new destination, Alexandroupolis. There's a new ticket checker who's nicer and speaks better English, so we ask him about the Pythion situation. He only confirms our new reality, but adds that the bus is run by the train company and, even better, that it's included in the ticket price and should be waiting for us just when we arrive--brilliant!
Noon. We've befriended a Greek travel agent, and at this point, instead of pointing out the window at passing lakes and mountains, he becomes our interpreter. Another train attendant is trying to tell us in Greek that the train is running late and that we can't count on the bus to expedite us to our Istanbul train waiting at the border. We don't even know what time that train may leave, nor are we sure from where on the border this will take place, but we take his word for it. Oh yeah, and we're then instructed to get off the train at the second stop, where a taxi will be waiting to whisk us away to Turkey.
1:30pm. We don't really believe anyone or anything anymore, but at the same time we still listen to everyone. We're packed up as the train is coming to a stop in Komotini, and we follow the pointing fingers of men who may actually be trying to help us get to Istanbul. There's a taxi, backed in, trunk open, and an overweight Greek driver named Spiro (who speaks no English) becomes our escort. The best part about our upcoming ride is that, according to the train company, they were late, so they're paying for it.
1:37pm. We're doing 150 kph on a Greek highway with the windows down, and the jolly man behind the wheel is ecstatic because he knows he's getting paid today. Are we still in a hurry? We don't even know. We just keep driving, the meter keeps counting, and I keep pointing at our train tickets and saying, "Train. Istanbul." It's a beautiful day, and Spiro is blasting Greek music as we all snap our fingers to the beat. He points for me to mess with the radio station; I find Snow Patrol and give him the thumbs up, so he turns the volume way up.
3:05pm. We're passing through farmland when Spiro turns down a side road and reaches to remove his seatbelt. At this point we expect to be introduced to Spiro's friends and their weapons of choice for the quintessential crime, but alas, there are train tracks. Pythion! It's written on the station.
3:08pm. The meter is at just under 115 euros, but we don't care. All Spiro wants from us is a handshake. He walks us around the corner and introduces us to the Greek passport control agents who will stamp our pages for departure from the EU and the West. There are actually humans at this frontier station. It's old and quiet. All that's missing for the perfect scene from a country western movie are Clint Eastwood and some tumbleweeds. The train's sitting there, waiting, and it will leave on time at 3:30pm. We've made it! We even have time to stock up on supplies and relieve ourselves by trying our luck at the squatty potties. For the record, there is a second train from Greece to Istanbul, and you'll pay one third the price of a plane ticket for a ride and a better story. We had to hear one more train clunk and clatter on the tracks, only this time we were certain that the music was moving us to Istanbul.
100! Incredibly, it's been that many days since the two of us embarked to fulfill this life size dream. While we're halfway home--and that's a nice thought--we also continue to wonder whether we're halfway to anywhere else. You know, whether we're making progress in our spiritual, relational, and personal pursuits. We like to believe so, and in that spirit we press on in our journey of the heart. Yesterday I was inspired by the following Arab proverb: "What comes from the lips reaches the ears, but what comes from the heart reaches the heart."
Greece has been an exercise in doing very little. With views of the Mediterannean below and sunshine that doesn't stop from above, we've been soaking up a week of the hottest May here in years. We've also been writing, reading, chatting, and eating way too many gyros. Yes, there is food for the stomach and food for the soul here in the Greek islands.
As we move on to Istanbul and approach our arrival into Amman, Jordan on June 5th, we're reminded of the many who step into our world by visiting us here on our blog and keeping in touch with us. We're thankful that our family, friends, and future are never far from us.
We've done it. We've gone. We miss you, but we'll be back. In the meantime, be a stowaway of sorts here in our internet suitcase. Start by checking out our itinerary and pictures below, then come back often enough to inspire us to post stuff. Did we mention that we miss you?
With grateful hearts and calloused feet, we turn our eyes toward home. Speaking of eyes, am I or am I not staring at Wanida in the photo above? Hold that thought. You see, we've bittersweetly come to the end of our story here, and closure calls for revelation and resolution, so time travel with us back to the beginning in February--no, not six and a half months ago, but eight and a half years ago in February of 2000.
