Europe Travel - Part 63

Away from Home for the Holidays

Athens, Greece

by W. Ruth Kozak

Christmas in 1983 was the first time I had ever spent Christmas away from my family. I couldn’t have been any farther away from Vancouver, Canada than Athens, Greece. It looked as though it would be a dismal time. I had been living in Athens since October and shared a two-bedroom sparsely furnished flat with another woman. We both worked as E.S.L. teachers. What money we earned bought the barest necessities for our flat. I used an upturned drawer to put my typewriter on and bashed out travel stories for newspapers at home. After what we were accustomed to at home, life in Athens was bleak. I made friends with two Irish men, Donald and Barry, who made their living busking on the metro enchanting the Greeks with their Irish songs. They were homeless, and as we had an empty salon, I invited them to stay with us. Donald and Barry became my saviors, cheering me with their Irish humor and lively music.

As Christmas drew near I searched for festive signs around town. Greeks don’t celebrate Christmas the way we do at home. In the shops around Omonia and Kolonaki Square there wasn’t a sign of Rudolph, Frosty or Santa’s helpers. A large tree with lights was erected in Syntagma Square, but I missed the cheery sound of Salvation Army bell-ringers and carolers. Except for those who have adopted the western customs of celebrating the Yule season, Christmas traditions in Greece are different than those at home in North America. Early in December there are celebrations to honor Aghio Nikolaos (St. Nicholas), patron saint of seamen. There are fasting days and a Christmas meal with traditional food. But the Greek’s real festive celebration starts on New Years Eve with a social evening. The men play cards and gamble the night away; the children and families visit other houses to sing ‘kalandas’ accompanied by the chiming of little silver triangles. Santa Claus doesn’t visit on Christmas Eve. Here’s it’s Aghio Vassilis (St. Basil) who comes at New Years with gifts for the children.

I went to the street market where the gypsies sold holly, pine branches and flowers and bought a little laurel bush with shiny green leaves and little wax-like red apples spiked on the ends of the branches. I put it in a flower pot and hung gold garlands on it with three red paper birds for ornaments and a string of tiny colored lights. Soon parcels arrived in the mail and I placed them underneath.

My room-mate’s Greek boyfriend was opening a bar on Christmas Eve in the town of Chalkis on the island of Euboeia and he hired Donald and Barry to play there. The cozy little pub was located near the sea. The opening night was disappointing as very few customers came. There certainly wasn’t a festive spirit.

On Christmas day, we went for a stroll along the waterfront. As we walked, Barry played his guitar. Some seamen called us over so Barry and Donald sang Irish songs for them, and we all joined in singing Christmas carols. We found a little crčche with models of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus surrounded by live goats and sheep. On our way back to the taverna, we stopped for a meal. The closest thing to turkey we could find was chicken, but it would have to do. At least it was beginning to feel a lot more like Christmas.

That night we sat alone in the empty taverna and reminisced about Christmas at home, describing in detail the turkey dinners we remembered from past Christmas. We imagined the feast our families would be eating that Christmas day, savoring every vicarious mouth-full: the succulent turkey meat, the spicy stuffing, the cranberry jelly, the candied yams, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, the variety of fresh vegetables and best of all, the delicious aromas that went with the food. We imagined the steaming plum pudding smothered in hot rum sauce, and how we would get the piece with money wrapped up inside. We felt comfort in each other’s company. We were a ‘family’. Because of Donald and Barry, Christmas became special after all, even though we were all so far away from home.

If You Go:

In recent years things have changed in Greece and with the influence of the European community there is more evidence of the Western style Christmas.

Christmas in Greece
Travel guide to Greece

About the author:
That Christmas in Greece was the first time in her life that W. Ruth Kozak had spent Christmas away from her family and friends in Canada. It was a unique experience. But it would have been a lonely time if it hadn’t been for the Irish boys, Barry and Donald, who cheered up the Season with their Irish wit and songs.

Photo Credits:
Athens Christmas decorations by Vouliagmeni / Public domain
Russian icon of Saint Nicholas by The original uploader was CulturalUniverse at English Wikipedia. / CC BY-SA
Madonna and child by Theophanes the Greek / Public domain

Nauplion, the Fortified City

Nafplio, Greece

by W. Ruth Kozak

On my first visit to Nauplion [also spelled Nafplio], in 1978, I recall it only as a dusty little town dominated by an impressive citadel, with a small Venetian fortress out in the Bay. Recently, on a quest to explore Greece‘s medieval past, I decided to return there. What I learned was that Nauplion has been a fortified city since the Bronze Age, and an important part of Greece’s history of the struggle for independence.

I traveled by bus from Athens through scenic countryside and historic places such as ancient Corinth, the Corinth Canal, Argos (with it’s immense Larissa fortress built on the ancient agora of Argos, a conglomeration of Byzantine, Frankish, Venetian and Turkish structures). The bus route passes by ancient Tiryns massive walls dating to the Bronze Age. In the barren mountains nearby is Mycenae (Homer’s “well built Mycenae rich in gold”) where Agammenon’s palace stood.

Located on the Argolic Gulf in the Peloponnese, Nauplion was the capital of Greece after Greek Independence. It has been a major port since the Bronze Age. Right across the Gulf is Argos, where Jason set sail in search of the Golden Fleece. According to one of the many ancient legends, Palamedes of Nauplion joined the expedition of armies who sailed against Troy. Odysseys accused him of being a traitor and he was murdered. For revenge, Palamedes’ father sent his other sons to seduce the wives of the Greek commanders. The plot apparently was successful as only one wife remained faithful to her husband: Penelope, wife of Odysseys. In the 7th century B.C. sided with Sparta against Argos. In retaliation, the King of Argos destroyed Nauplion and made it a naval station for his own city.

Nauplion’s main fortification is the Acronauplia, built by the Romans and Byzantines and later strengthened by a succession of conquerors including the French, Venetians and the Turks. Built on a peninsula, the Acronauplia was protected by a moat and a stronghold with vaulted ceilings and underground passages stocked with explosives. The gates of this citadel were decorated with an Arabian sword which supposedly belong to the first janissary to cross through when the Turks captured the city in 1715. According to legend, the sword dripped blood every Friday, the day the city was invaded.

There are three castles ruins in Nauplion, as well as elegant restored Venetian houses and gracious neo-Classical mansions. The narrow streets are lined with interesting shops and traditional tavernas. A seaside resort, it provides many things of interest to see and do.

The harbour is guarded by the Bourtzi, a small island fortress (left) built by the Venetians. The Venetians called Nauplion “Porto Catena” (the Chain Port) because a heavy iron chain stretched from the tower across the water, anchored in a bastion which was fortified with five cannons. Vessels hoping to enter the harbor had to pass by the chain and were caught in the crossfire. The Bourtzi was used as a fort until 1865 when it became the residence of the executioner.

Nauplion town is built up under the walls of the old Venetian castle, the Akronafplia Fortress, which has walls containing stones from the original Bronze Age citadel. Once the town was completely enclosed within its walls. The fortress was used as a political prison from 1936 – 1956, rather ominous given the starvation, torture and beatings these political prisoners were often subjected to. Now the prison is gone and in its place is a fancy hotel complex. The old town spills down the hillside under the walls. A paved walk skirts the promontory to the pebble beach where there are beach tavernas and accommodations for sun-bathers and swimmers.

Every corner you turn in Nauplion is a photo-opportunity. First I went to the harbour to get a closer look at the Bourtzi, then I walked all around the promontory below the walls of the old castle, toward the beach. It was a blazing hot day but I didn’t let that daunt me, and walked until I was ready to drop before going back to my air conditioned hotel.

That evening I did more exploring by foot and hopped on the little motorized sight-seeing train for a look around the town. The train was full of Greek tourists. Children’s music played a tinkling tune and everyone sang along. It was fun, and a good way to see around the town.

Later, at a cozy traditional taverna near my hotel I enjoyed a delicious meal: kalamarakia (squid) that melted in my mouth they were so fresh; patatas fourno (potatoes baked in the oven with cheese); horta (wild greens) and a bottle of very good retsina. All for 14 Euro.

The next morning I caught a taxi up to the imposing fortress of the Palamidi, named for Palamedes of the legend. The fortress is on a 216 m. high outcrop of rock overlooking the town. There are 1000 steps leading up to the gates. In spite of the heat a troop of people—men, women wearing high heel shoes and children, were making the arduous climb.

Within the citadel walls are three separate Venetian fortresses built between 1711 and 1714 but seized by the Turks shortly afterwards. Above the gates is the Venetian emblem of the Lion of St. Mark. This stone emblem appears in various places around the walls of the old castle too. During the War of Independence against the Turks, under the leadership of the venerable “klepht” (mountain fighter) Theodoros Kolokotronis (left), the citadel was besieged and finally won. Kolokotronis is said to have ridden his horse up the steep slopes of the Palamidi to celebrate his victory. One of the bastions is called “Kolokotroni’s prison” because he was later imprisoned there after being charged with treason in 1834. He was later pardoned and died in Athens in 1842.

I wandered around the spooky cell blocks, cave-like stone rooms with barred windows. Some of the smaller cells still had the iron rails on the walls were prisoners were chained. I wondered how many souls had perished there, or languished away their lives, and how many men had been jammed into each of those stone caves.

I followed the cobbled paths and climbed on the crumbling walls for hours before making the descent, inching my way down the steep, slippery stairs.

By then it was time to leave Nauplion. I hadn’t seen the museums, nor did I take the small boat out to the Bourtzi. That would have to wait for another visit. I had seen what I came to see, an important part of Greece’s historical past.

Private Walking Tour in Nafplio

If You Go:

Buses run several times a day from Athens.
Accommodations: There are few budget hotels in the old town, but many available in the main part of the port. Several camp sites are nearby.
The Palamidi Fortress: Open daily 8 – 6:45 (summer) and 8 – 5 (winter) Admission: 2.35 Euro.
The Akronaplia Fortress: There is a lift up from the western edge of town.
The Bourtzi: Boats leave from the town provided there are at least 4 passengers. 1.50 Euro.

Argolida Private Tour: Mycenae, Nafplio and Epidaurus Day Trip from Athens

An exciting exploration of Peloponnese at ancient Corinth, Mycenae and Nafplio

Nafplio City Tour

About the author:
W. Ruth Kozak started visiting Greece in 1979. She lived there for several years and is a frequent visitor who considers Greece her second home. She’s lived on both Vironos (Byron’s) St. and Kolokotroni St. in Athens and combines her research field trips about Greek history and culture with her travel writing. You can read more of Ruth’s travel adventures on her blog:
www.travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com

Photo Credits:
First Nafplio photo by: Jeanhousen / CC BY
All other photos are by W. Ruth Kozak

Remembrance Day: A Memorial of the First World War

Ypres, Belgium

by W. Ruth Kozak

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918), Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If y break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

The author of this poignant, well-known poem was Lt. Col. John Alexander McCrae, a soldier from Guelph Ontario who served as a surgeon in the No. 1 field hospital in Ypres during World War I.

After his friend and former student, Lt. Alexis Helmar, from Ottawa, was killed during the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915, McCrae wrote this inspirational poem “In Flanders Fields.” In the absence of a chaplain, McCrae had buried his friend. In the nearby cemetery he could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches. The poem was an exact description of the scene. He also wrote of that day “I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that 17 days. Seventeen days of Hades!”

On January 28, 1918, while commanding the No. 3 Canadian General Hospital at Boulogne, McCrae died of pneumonia. He was 46 years old. He was buried with full honors in the Commonwealth War graves section of Wimereux Cemetery near Boulogne.

As a child, growing up during World War II, almost everyone of the children in my school in Stratford Ontario had fathers, grandfathers, brothers or uncles serving overseas. My father was Chaplain in the No. 10 Field Hospital in Holland. Fortunately, he returned to us safely after the war ended. But I recall, almost on a daily basis, someone in our school or neighbourhood would get the sad news that someone they loved had died or was wounded.

This song was sung in our classroom every Remembrance Day. And still today, on Remembrance Day, November 11th, this beautiful poem resonates to remind us all of the tragedy of war.

Tours of Ypres:

Private Somme Battlefields, Fromelles and Flanders Fields Tour with Last Post Ceremony in Ypres from Brussels

Canadian Somme and Flanders battlefield tour 2 days starting from Ypres or Bruges

Australian WW1 battlefield tour in Flanders and the Somme from Bruges or Ypres 2 days

Berlin Wall: Wallpeckers Chip Away History

Berlin, Germany

by Diana Ellis

“In Berlin we don’t have woodpeckers; we have wallpeckers,” Eva, a native Berliner, tells me. “People come to the Berlin Wall with picks and hammers trying to take home a piece of history.”

I can understand why. I have thought about doing this myself. Why pay twenty Euro dollars for a small piece of the wall when you can get your own much larger piece free?

I first saw the Berlin Wall, or part of it, in New York City next to a memorial for the World Trade Center. Two pieces of history side by side. A piece of the Berlin Wall and some beams from the World Trade Center. The piece of wall was about six feet tall and three feet wide. It had an eye painted on it. Stalin’s eye watching for defectors during the cold war.

In Berlin, most of the wall was taken down on November 9, 1989. As I watched it on television, part of me was sad because it had come down before I had a chance to see it. Another part cheered the people who were dismantling it, wishing I could be there helping. Sixteen years later I have finally made it to Berlin. A different Berlin than I imaged. I had grown up watching movies about the cold war where the divided city and the infamous wall figured prominently. The Berlin I now see is united. Some of the wall still stands but is a tourist attraction, not a political statement. I am staying in a hotel in East Berlin, but it is not necessary for me to go through border control at Check Point Charlie to get there. It is hard to tell East and West Berlin apart now because they look so much alike and the wall is no longer there to divide them.

The Second World War was a distant memory by the time I was born, but the cold war raged in full force. The news regularly contained stories about people trying to defect to the West. News footage showed people being shot in the “no-man’s land” between East and West Germany. Armed guards patrolled the border. They were always shown walking along the inside of the wall carrying machine guns and leading their vicious looking dogs. Check Point Charlie was the main crossing point in Berlin where all the action happened in the movies and the newsreels. Manned by Americans on the West and communist troops on the East, it represented the superpower standoff that was at the heart of the cold war. Spies from both sides regularly slipped across the border. At least they did in the movies I watched.

Seeing the wall now, I do not find it imposing. It has lost the ability that it had to induce terror in people’s hearts. It is a concrete structure that stands nearly nine feet high. At the top, there is a cylinder shaped border that is covered with barbed wire. It is made of concrete panels that were pre-poured and assembled practically overnight in August 1961. Much of the wall that faces the West was painted with murals that protested the very existence of the wall. They are still there. The art work is surprisingly good.

The Berlin wall stood for twenty-eight years, two months and twenty-seven days. It was 155 kilometers long. It separated not only East and West Berlin but the German State of Brandenburg as well. It was built to stop the migration of people from East to West. These may be the historical facts but not the image of the wall that remains in my mind. To me it represents the cold war, a world divided by ideology. When the Berlin wall came down, the Soviet Union fell soon afterwards and the cold war ended.

I will leave Berlin with my own piece of the wall. I bought it in a souvenir shop next to the Checkpoint Charlie Museum. It’s a small piece of concrete painted with rainbow colors and comes with a certificate of authenticity. Now I too am a wallpecker.

More Information:

Berlin Wall Online
The Fall of the Berlin Wall 198
Official Website of Berlin: Tourism & Travel

Berlin Wall Tours Now Available:

Berlin Wall Walking Tour with Historian Guide
Berlin Wall And Cold War Walking Tour in Berlin
Private Half-Day Walking Tour: Berlin Wall, Cold War and Checkpoint Charlie
2-Hour Guided Berlin Wall Private Walking Tour

About the author:
Diana Ellis is a Canadian travel writer who has visited over 30 different countries on seven continents and has written extensively about her adventures. Her travel humor and photographs have appeared on various travel websites. Diana also writes for local historical publications. She currently resides in Edmonton, AB Canada. More info at: diellistravelholic.com.

Photo credits:
Berlin Wall Monument by The Central Intelligence Agency / Public domain
All other photos are by Diana Ellis.

Death and Dolce in Italy’s Dolomites

by Marc Latham

Before I ascended into the Dolomites, if somebody mentioned Great War (World War One) stalemates I would only have thought of the Somme, Ypres and other mud and blood filled fields of northern Europe; if someone talked about Great War weather-induced injuries I would presume they were referring to trench-foot; and if they recounted the horrors of Great War winters my mind would visualise soldiers crawling through freezing rain or knee-deep in stagnant water.

Yet here I was, in a cramped machine-gun post 8,000 feet up on Lagazuoi in the Italian Dolomites, where ninety years previously the Austrians had defended their Alps front line against Italians who had joined the war on the side of the Entente Powers (led by Britain and Commonwealth countries, Russia and France) against the Central Powers (mainly Germany and Austria-Hungary). The gun was pointed across at what had then been Italian positions; they only seemed a stone-throw away, although there was a hundred foot drop in-between.

Lagazuoi could be enjoyed in the summer sun, but temperatures were still cool to say the least, and in winter it can drop to -30c (-22f); so in the trenches of the Dolomites it was blizzards and frostbite that were the main weather concerns for the Italian and Austrian troops fighting doggedly in the tunnels and peaks of the southern Alps.

The Dolomites were formed 200 million years ago out of the primeval ocean, and the highest peaks now reach 12,000 feet. They take their name from French mineralogist, Déodat de Dolomieu (1750-1801), who discovered and defined the unique composition of the stone which gives it a lighter colour than most mountains.

I had travelled up to the Dolomites from Reggio Emilia with a local friend I’d met in Africa seven years before. Reggio is the main town in the Emilia-Romagna region of northern Italy, and is a bastion of socialism in a country divided between politically polarised regions; streets are named after left-wing legends such as Lenin, Marx and Che Guevara, and there is a statue in the town celebrating the partisans who fought against Mussolini in World War Two.

We travelled north by train, via Bologna and Verona to Brunico. The Bologna train had been packed with people heading to the coast at Rimini; I’d apparently picked an inconvenient time to visit Italy, as the country largely shuts down in August for a national holiday.

Sun-kissed vineyards and farmland provided the vista until Verona, and then mountains began to dominate the horizon after that; many featured majestic medieval castles that offer clues to the region’s importance as a trading route, and the wealth and prestige it has brought. The temperature had been about 40c (110f) in Reggio, but as we started winding up into the Alpine landscape temperature figures halved and there was more cloud.

When we arrived in Brunico it looked and sounded as if we’d crossed into another country: red and white flags abound, the architecture is typical of the central Alps, and German is the primary language as it is in Austria. This is because the region, South Tyrol, was Austrian until the Italian push into the Dolomites during the Great War. As part of the 1915 treaty that brought neutral Italy into the war it was agreed that they should have some Austro-Hungarian regions after the conflict. Although parts of the treaty could not be kept, South Tyrol did become Italian in 1919.

From Brunico we took a comfortable bus along country roads that provided great views of lush green valleys and high mountain peaks to the village of Pedraces in the Badia valley for a couple of Euros. We stayed at the Pension Armalia, which was clean and friendly, although the staff didn’t speak English; luckily, my friend provided translation and did all the organising. Breakfast and dinner were included in the price, and provided enough for the day; they were not used to catering for vegetarians so it was mostly egg and cheese dishes for me, but they were always nice and filling.

On the first day we bused it into the bigger village of La Villa, where there is a good tourist office. It was there that I first saw the leaflet for the mountain-top Great War Museum: it looked intriguing and declared itself unique. Three days of hiking amongst impressive peaks and Sound of the Music style meadows later it was time to take a trip back in time to the Great War.

We took a bus into La Villa again at about 9am, and then another bus to the ski lift station at the Falzarego Pass. The second bus journey took us to the end of the mountain range that framed one flank of the valley, and when I realised where we were going I was overjoyed; I’d wondered what lay beyond the high natural wall that dominated that side of the panorama, and now I was about to find out. As we wound our way through mountains, forests and Lake Valparola to the 6000 feet Falzarego there were magnificent views down the valley all the way to Pedraces.

The ski-lift carried us up an additional 2000 feet in altitude, and combined with the wind chill from being on top of an exposed peak it made a noticeable difference to the temperature. I didn’t think there would be much natural life at that altitude, and was therefore surprised to see a flock of birds fly high above us before turning en-masse and heading back down towards the valley below. We made our way over to one of the many crosses that appear on prominent peaks across the mountains in the region, and could see a couple of small lakes further into the range; mountains dominated the horizon for as far as the eye could see.

Leaving the exposed peak and passing the 360 degree reception centre we started to view the open air museum as we descended on a steep and narrow path. The path seems to be the one used during the Great War, as the preserved living quarters and positions of the Austrian troops defending the Lagazuoi Peak are accessible from it as you walk.

The soldiers spent two winters guarding the rock in the freezing cold, and it was easy to imagine how relieved the soldiers must have been to escape a third. There were separate quarters for the officers and men, with neither looking comfortable; the only preferential benefits for the officers seemed to be a little more room and a desk. The machine-gun post was claustrophobic and cold, and if you add on the freezing temperatures of winter and being fired at by snipers and heavy artillery then it must have been quite close to what I’d imagine hell would be like if it did ever freeze over.

After leaving Lagazuoi we made our way down a track at the bottom of no-man’s-land; looking back up at the Austrian positions we could view them almost as the Italians must have done. All of a sudden the Austrian experience didn’t seem quite as bad, as I’d have preferred to be looking and firing down than up. However, the Italians did have the advantage of launching surprise attacks at the Austrians by tunnelling into the mountain.

The closest I came to relating to the sound of explosions that had disrupted the harmony of the Dolomites ninety years before was being awoken one night by the loudest thunderstorm I’ve ever heard. Before that I’d been thinking how easy it looked to just hike up one of the beautiful peaks. Like war, mountains can look easier to survive than in reality; and when you combine them together, they can provide one of the toughest tests of all.

Private daily Tour: The most beautiful Trekking in the Dolomites

If You Go:

Collett’s: Classic Walking Holiday in the Italian Dolomites
For accommodation: Your Holiday Dolomites
For transport information: Discover the Dolomites
Art and culture in the Dolomites

About the author:
After spending his twenties travelling the world, Marc Latham studied history and communications studies at university, and graduated with a PhD in 2005. He has since been building a freelance writing career from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website, and has had several articles published. This month, Booklocker is set to publish an ebook memoir about his first travel around Europe and the Middle-East, including time spent amongst the 1980s Worker-Traveller communities that nomadically followed the seasonal work.
Contact: marc@greenygrey.co.uk – www.greenygrey.co.uk/blog

Photo credits:
Lake Valparola by: Steinsplitter / CC BY-SA
All other photos are by Marc Latham.

Athens, Greece

If You Go:

Nafplio, Greece

If You Go:

Ypres, Belgium

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

Tours of Ypres:

Further Reading:

Berlin, Germany

More Information:

If You Go: