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JdF Trail Day 3
We woke up early on Chin Beach. Justin had brought his cell phone, and turned it on to set the alarm for the next morning. I think he had it on airplane mode to conserve battery. No sense the phone looking for a signal that just wasn’t there. So we were able to get up at 7am, much to my relief.
Today we were hiking about 9km of “difficult” section, then back into “moderate”. We hoped to make it to Payzant Creek, a campsite 20km away. By far our most ambitious distance since the easy last section of the WCT, two years ago. Hopefully “difficult” was a lot easier than “most difficult” of yesterday. If we failed to hit our mark, there were two campsites halfway or less that we could land at instead. But that would leave quite a distance to go on the last day, and push back our return to the truck. And come dangerously close to the wedding prep day. I figured the bride would not thank me for disappearing into the woods right up to the day she was to be married. Give me some credit though, as I did remember to call her before we dropped out of cell service, and advise her of our plans. So, trek 2okm on a trail we were rather unfamiliar with, or risk the wrath of the bride.
We set off early.
The first 8km were indeed rough, with roots and mud being the rule. There were a few more uprooted and toppled trees, cutting off the old path, with new path being forged into the hillside above the slide.
We reached a suspension bridge in the middle of this rugged section, spanning a particularly steep gully, with a rushing creek at the bottom. I peered down the sheer sides of the banks, and was glad there was a bridge way out here. On the other side, we started climbing steeply up a treed slope. It seemed to go on and on, upwards, switching back and forth. Justin led the way, a veritable spring in his step it seemed to me. I trudged up, leaning on my poles, and panting. Justin was carrying the food bags, which we had eaten some food out of, thereby making them lighter. That must be it, I told myself.
At the top of this steep hill, we were treated to a smooth flat path, broad enough for both of us to walk side by side. It appeared to be an old service road, now dug across to prevent vehicles from making their way in, and incorporated into the trail. I was just as happy to stride along for a while, not tripping over roots. Soon enough it ended however, and we skirted the crest of a deteriorating slope, back towards the ocean. The path down was quite rough, with toppled sections of path were steps likely used to be. This left some serious drops, usually from about waist high. We scrambled down these as possible, loath to leap and jar our knees. Not to mention the sheer risk of landing poorly and damaging an ankle. There were other hikers on the path, but not that many, so sending word for help would be a serious challenge, in case of trouble.
The path finally rejoined the ocean, or at least we could hear it again through the typical screen of bushes and small coastal trees. For an oceanside hike, there were few views of the actual ocean. those we did have were predictably similar. Ocean, bull kelp, and black rocks. Much less scenic than the WCT, that was for sure. An easier hike overall, however.
The path forked, and we were gratified to see a sign pointing down to Sombrio Point. We were nearing the end of the difficult section! As it was near lunch, we followed the steep path down to Sombrio Point. I was not keen to hike back up to the main path, but it was the only named point on the tiny paper map we had printed out. There had to be a reason for that, surely.
It turns out that Sombrio Point is a breathtaking black rock jutting out into the sea, with a paler rock land bridge leading up to it. We dropped the packs and spent a few minutes scrambling over the rocks, with the waves crashing around us. There was a thick bed of huge mussels in one crevice, but I just couldn’t figure out a way down to them. And they were constantly being washed by waves. Not safe then, but they looked tasty!
Back at the backpacks, I broke out my lunch/ snack bag. A Clif Builder bar for lunch, my usual. A handful of honey roasted peanuts and some pork jerky. Washed down with some water I had pumped and purified from a stream. I am sure that stream water is the best tasting water, and with my little ceramic purifier, I was reasonably reassured I wouldn’t be laid low by water bugs. A small concern here according to some, but the forest also added particulate to the water, turning it brown. Apparently harmless, but somewhat unappetizing. So the purifier helped on that front as well.
Lunch done, I pulled off my hiker and tended to a sore spot on my pinky toe. All the downhill had not been kind to my knees, nor this toe in particular. And the uphill was causing a rub on my right heel. So. First the moleskin went on, to preserve the skin before it blistered. Then ductape over that. In the case of my heel, I taped from base of heel up to nearly my calf. The old tape had slipped down last time, so I was taking no chances this time. Foot suitably armoured, I laced my muddy shoe back on, and zipped my gaiter back up. Gaiters had been very useful this trip, keeping the mud from falling into our footwear. Mine were also snug enough to prevent my shoelaces from untying. Something about my Keen hikers. The laces didn’t like to stay tied up, not on this pair, nor the pair before. Ah well, otherwise a good shoe.
Back on the trail, we were supposed to be on the “moderate” section. However, the next km proved to be just as difficult as the previous 7km, with fallen trees and hillside slides causing soft footing, mud bogs, and detours. We trudged onwards.
Sombio Beach campsite was next, a lovely spot in the protected sweep of a bay. We hiked along the beach, and a gentle rain started to fall. It had been spitting a bit earlier, but nothing too serious. We had the rain covers over our backpacks, and Justin had a jaunty little rain hat that I was both appalled by and envious of. We were suitably geared for the rain, and it wasn’t even raining too hard. So we trudged on.
Somewhere at the north end of Sombrio Beach, we had missed the turnoff to get back to the trail. There was a significant stream to cross, and the rocks were slippery and green. There was a suspension bridge upstream. Hmm, that’s where the trail was then. We just missed the beach exit trail.
The rocks on the side of the creek turned out to also be slippery. And the banks were closing in, getting steep. Justin spied a promising looking trail, and we ascended the bank, pushing along the narrow trail. Soon, narrow became overgrown, which declined steadily to game trail, then to a thin spot in the bushes. We persevered of course, because to do otherwise was to turn around. And the trail had to be just ahead. Ok, a little more… The thought did flash through my mind that this was how people got lost. But really, the stream was just over there… somewhere. I couldn’t hear it anymore. Finally we crashed out of the bushes, onto a wide and well worn path. I looked at Justin. Pine needles were caught in his beard hair. I laughed, and unclipped my bag. I could feel the needles clumped up at the back of my neck. We both stripped off our shirts, and brushed the forest debris off each others sweaty skin, off our packs. Might as well have a snakc while the packs are down. And pee in the bushes.
Suitably refreshed, we got back on the trail. the suspension bridge was smaller than the last one, only a meter or so above the creek. It was well worn by many feet, there being road access to a parking lot near to the lovely and sandy Sombrio Beach. Well, some parts of the beach were sandy. Or the rocks were really small. Something like that.
The next few km of trail was indeed moderate. There were many gentle slopes, though still quite a few steep ones as well. It was much muddier here, and the rain continued to fall off and on. The log bridges crossed lovely little streams, but were very slippery. In my haste to make the 20km goal of the day, I strode out onto one bridge, barely remembering to check my stride in time to hit the wood. my fear was unfounded however, the bridge was not too slippery. The root on the other side of the bridge which I stepped down onto was actually quite slippery. My foot flew out from under me, and I toppled over, towards the bank and not the stream fortunately. I tried to catch myself with my pole, as had worked so many times before. This time I was moving too fast, and simply wretched my shoulder as I fell. I crashed down on my right hip, legs tangled in the undergrowth and folded under me, arm jerked up high.
Justin hurried over, gracefully avoiding the slippery patch. The concern in his voice as he asked how he could help! I lay there, and said I just wanted to have a little cry. That startled a chuckle out of him, and brought a smile to my own face. I unclipped my bag, and heaved myself to my feet. Mud was liberally smeared all over my legs, both from the fall, and from trudging through mudholes all day. I gave myself a once over, and declared myself sound enough to continue. We started walking again, slowly so that I could test out my limbs. All seemed to be in order, and we soon resumed a good pace. A little slower than before.
The day dragged on. We passed piles of bear crap on the trail, so took to talking when we were among the berry bushes. Both of us were tired, but managed to find a little energy to discuss what foods we were craving. Justin wanted nice cheese bread. I wanted chevapi, the little sausage buns we had in Croatia.
Our feet dragged on. I barely cared to try and avoid the puddles anymore. We passed both our back up campsites, and a parking lot that was a long ways from the main road. I was tempted to make our exit there anyways, but we plugged on. Only 3km to Payzant Creek! We can do it!
The last two km passed slowly. our pace had certainly slowed down. The light was noticeably dimmer. There were some boardwalks in the trees, and strangely, some interpretive signs giving info about the temperate rain forest we now walked through. I encouraged Justin as much as I could. His feet were soaked through, and rubbing. I couldn’t feel my feet, other than pummeled lumps I kept putting in front of each other. Stumbling grew much more frequent.
Finally, we made it to Payzant. We crossed a sturdy bridge and found the welcome little sign with map that we had come to associate with campsites and trailheads. The campsite was on the side of a hill, about 1km from the ocean. Hmm, that hadn’t been very well displayed on the little map we had. Oh well, time to unload and dry our socks. Oh. No fires allowed. And its raining again. In a rain forest.
It was a wet and frustrating night that night. I nearly broke down and cried with a feeling of being overwhelmed with silly little things, but Justin was there for me, helping and hugging. We finally settled down after a good meal, in the silly little depressions they provide at Payzant. I had reason to praise the sealed floor of my new tent that night. Despite our careful trenching in the hard packed earth, water pooled in the tent area, growing to about 3cm deep under us. The floor held however, and we were only mildly damp in the morning.
I did wake in the middle of the night with the feeling I might need to pee. I firmly quashed that idea, listening to the rain patter down. I couldn’t imagine the annoyance of getting my bum out to pee, then getting dry enough to shimmy back in bed. I was truly envious of Justin, who simply aimed from the door, and let fly.
Juan de Fuca Marine Trail, Day 1
Finally, the day to begin the trail. Now that we didn’t have the bikes, we simply drove the truck and trailer to the Juan de Fuca Marine Trailhead parking lot. There is a place to grab an envelope and tear it into three sections. Section 3 goes on your dash, to prove you registered, so you can park at the trailhead. Section 2 goes with you in your backpack, to prove you registered, so you can camp at the provided campsites. Section 1 goes in the vault/post thingie at the start of the trail, with $10 per person per night in it, cash only of course. So parking wasn’t an issue, though we took up a lot of room with the trailer. I felt vaguely guilty about that, so left a note on the dash next to our receipt, apologising.
With that, we set off. Around the crack of 11. Oh well, if we weren’t getting an early start, we did get a lot of needed sleep, and at least we were on the trail finally. Packed and ready, and I was pretty sure I had everything I needed. And if not, it probably wasn’t that important anyways.
From the Juan de Fuca trailhead parking lot (shared with China Beach day use area parking lot) we headed off towards Mystic beach. The day was overcast but warm enough, and the first section of the hike was easy, a well worn trail through tall trees, with clear ground below, owing to the dense and soaring canopy far over our heads. We made our way over a suspension bridge, jumping and swaying the bridge under each other’s feet. Two kilometers later, and one steep staircase cut out of a fallen tree, we ended up on Mystic Beach.
The fog had clung to the flanks of the island, and aptly named Mystic beach faded away into the mist. A waterfall splashed down in the distance, a rope swing appeared as someone swung on it, and campers sprawled out, a late breakfast before them, a late start on their last day of the trail, so close to the end. And before it all, the ocean. The gentle waves found in the Juan de Fuca strait lapped at the sandy shore, the reassuring susurrus that would be the acoustic backdrop to this adventure.
We smiled, taking it in, resting under the weight of our bags. As it was still early, we pushed on for the next campsite, Bear Beach. It was only another 6 km down the trail, at marker 8.7km. We were still in the “moderate” section of the trail. Should be no problem!
We trudged down the beach, stride easy, and settling into the rhythm of the trail. I was taking it all in, letting my mind cast over what we would need for dinner that night, and how I would unpack my bag. A gentle thought process, comfortable in the cadence of my stride. The kilometers before us, the few behind us. I was ready for this adventure, and looking forward to the next few days by the ocean. I had prepared for this, had packed carefully, and felt confident in my gear. I was getting pretty good at this whole hiking thing, I mused to myself. I was ready for anything!
It was around kilometer 4 that I realized I had forgotten to pack toilet paper.
Prepping for the Trail
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Hiking, Places on September 22, 2016
Nothing is ever simple when travelling with two people. I can’t even imagine how larger groups get it done at all.
One sleep in the parking lot of a Walmart, with police cars going by. One early morning visit to Save On grocery, to look for fresh bread and contact lense solution. One wait in the ferry line, as the Sunday morning ferries were packed. I recommend reservations, as we had meant to do, but forgotten. Also, taking even our short little trailer across to the island, with two people and a truck with an extended cab (as they charge by the foot, and then per person) was expensive! It cost us $200 to get across.
Justin and I stopped off at the MEC in Victoria, and one of the sales people there directed us to Robinsons, a gear store just up the street. Much less busy than MEC, and they had a great sales rack upstairs. We topped up our gear in both places, and headed West on the island, past Sooke. Out of cell phone range. There is something divine about escaping the reach of the outside world.
We stopped at a campground near the beginning of the trail. Full. Oh wait, all the reserved spots are full, but they keep a couple first come spots, a few of which are double sites. We chose to take one half of the large site already claimed by a couple with a tent. They also had a really sweet dog, a silky mutt with soulful caramel coloured eyes who didn’t even bark, just waited to be introduced and then tried to climb into my lap. I threatened to take her home with us, the couple said she would try to come with us, and Justin gave me that look which means I can find a new place to live. So in short, the usual scenario with a friendly dog.
The wood for sale was green, so we skipped a fire, just packed our bags for the trail and collapsed into bed. That night was the sleep I needed. We slept soundly, cocooned in our comfortable trailer, undisturbed by road noise, drunken campers, bears, nothing. We slept the sleep of builders and do-ers finally at rest. For about 12 hours. Seems like we needed it!
Beautiful Iceland
Iceland, called the land of fire and snow. It may not look like much on the map, but reaching from sea to mountains, the land of this island is unlike any other. The mountains are capped with snow, and the thermal vents throw steam high into the chilly air.
I had heard that Iceland was beautiful. I have seen some of the scenery in various shows and movies (Sense8, Secret Life of Walter Mitty). It looked very nice.
One of the reasons I wanted to use the IcelandAir free layover was to experience this beauty. I thought I was prepared for Iceland. The thing is, Iceland is really beautiful. You think you can be prepared. You aren’t. The rocks rise stark against the sky, but somehow the vibrant green moss clings, softens. The thermal vents steam the air, the mineral deposits around them a fan of oranges, tans, greens, and browns. The snow accents the peaks, coldly forbidding. As one who grew up in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, I tell you truly that this land takes my breath away.
Iceland is relentlessly beautiful. You may drive a short way from the city, and marvel over the scenery. You think perhaps you are growing accustomed to the land. Your heart is seeped in it, there will be no sudden crescendo of new vistas. And then you round the corner, and there it is again. The beauty of the place rushes at you, catching you unaware. There is a thickening of your throat, a catch in your breath. The crisp air fills your nose, the wild scent of the place all you can smell. Your eyelids grow too small for this sensation, and there is the moisture on your cheeks again. Is it tears? Is it the waterfall before you? It is the place, immersing you in itself, expressing in your reaction.
Iceland is relentlessly beautiful. Be wary, should you go there.
Dusseldorf Layover
We flew Airberlin from Venice to Dusseldorf, where we had a 6 hour layover, then would fly on to Reykjavik, Iceland. What to do for six hours, in Germany? Turns out the old town of Dusseldorf is only 6 km or a 20 euro taxi ride from the airport. So we went to the old town, and Justin found a place to get his beard trimmed. His clippers had been in his stolen luggage, and with no way to trim his facial hair, it had been getting decidedly shaggy. He found a place to trim, and they even did it for free!
After that, we wandered the old town. Time to get a bite to eat. What is traditional German food? Apparently pork roasted on a spit, and goulash soup. No arguments there! The pork was delicious, and the half litre of wine washed it down quite well. We supped and drank, and wandered some more. The weather was a bit rainy, and a bit cold at 11 degrees. A preview of what we were heading into. Time passed, and eventually we caught a taxi back to the airport. The meter kept running, even as we waited at a red light. I used some strategic bitching, complaining to Justin that we ought to have walked out of old town and caught a cab. When the turn came for our cab, he ran a yellow light, and made the turn. I suppose I should’ve worked out a signal with Justin, to let him know I was bitching for the benefit of the cab, not actually complaining! Ah well, back to the airport, then on to Reykjavik!
Venice Accomodations
The plane banked low for the landing in Venice, and I was eager to get off. A small child just across the aisle was fussing a little bit, her parents managing her very well. But there was a woman one row back, right behind my set, who was more annoying by far. She managed to snort vigorously nearly the entire trip, only occasionally deciding to try the more conventional method of blowing her nose. Good thing it was only a two hour flight.
Once in Venice, we made use of the airport wifi to investigate a place to stay for the night. Yes, we should’ve had that settled by now, but we hadn’t gotten around to it. After a while of travelling, one gets lazy about searching out a place to stay every single night. This one does anyway. I suppose some travellers actually get more on the ball about searching out a place to stay.
A quick look online showed that Venice accommodations were indeed expensive. Our adult hotel just outside of Athens had been 50 euro a night, and that included breakfast. Here, we could expect to spend 150 a night, a steep climb from what we were used to! Justin was having somme troubles with hostels, and the annoying late night party types they generally attract. It was tough to sleep in an eight person dorm. But at 20 euro a night, I quite liked them for solo travel. Now that we were a pair travelling, we had a little better buying power. It made sense to spend a little more for a private room for 50 euro than for both of us to pay 20 euro for two beds in a dorm. Also, getting a private room made it way easier to get some quality alone time!
We got the addresses of a few hotels, and decided to walk around Venice, checking for last minute deals. Our flight arrived at 5pm local time, and after a short bus ride, we arrived in Venice proper. Which turned out to be a bit smaller than I thought, and good thing too, as we walked over fully half of it, looking for that hotel. Venice is a walking city only, well, and water taxi as well. We dialled in the address to the gps, after learning how this city wrote it’s addresses, and we made our way to the hotel. It had advertised 50 to 200 euro a night rates, and I was hoping for the lower end of the spectrum.
The first hotel was had the address for was full. We had stopped at one just after the first canal, just to enquire about rates as a baseline, It was a decent looking place, but not too fancy. They wanted 100 euro a night. The next place was looking for 175 a night. Then the next place was full. They suggested a place with more beds, and we went there. It was getting distinctly dusk-ish outside. This place had one private left, for 80 euro. It turned out to be the hostel! Due to a poor sleep the night before and a troublesome sore throat, Justin wanted a good bed. We pressed down on the mattress of the hostel bed, one hand on the coverlet over the actual linens. Squeak squeak squeak! The hostel minder got upset, asked us not to touch the bed. C’mon, its part of why we want to look at rooms, to make sure the bed is comfortable enough to sleep on. Justin was ok with it. I was less than thrilled. Both by the bed, and the attitude. We left.
We finally found the hotel we had been looking for. The rooms were 120 euro, and the bed slightly better than the hostel. At least this person did not protest our pressing of the bed! Justin was once again ok with the room and the bed, but I was not too keen on the price, or the location. We stepped outside to discuss it, and that is when Justin recalled the first hotel we had stopped at, with rooms for 100 euro. Why not try there? We turned around, ,and began retracing our steps.
Over canals, down skinny alleys/ roads. A few roads just end at a canal, with a few steps down into the water. Turn around, retrace our steps. More often than not, we followed people who appeared to know where they were going. That method worked surprisingly well!
We had nearly reached the first hotel. The awning was in sight. It was fully dark by now, and I was just hoping the hotel still had a room available. As we started down the final alley to the entrance, we passed an outdoor seating area for a restaurant. The server/ host caught my eye, and called out to me. “You want dinner, you want hotel?” Now, usually I ignore those soliciting me for accommodation, as it can be pretty shady. But this time I stopped, and asked for more info.
The server led us into the restaurant, and the owner handed us two glasses half full of pink drink. He spoke rapidly in Italian, patted me on the cheek, beamed at us both, and bustled out. Bemused, we sipped the sweet and mildly alcoholic drink. The server came in and out a few times, carrying trays of food. We were here, but also ignored! Then, the owner bustled back in. “You want room? For two? 75 euro for two, that’s good!” he said, making his way around the counter. It was indeed good! He pressed a key in our hands in exchange for a passport, so we could go look at the room. “Ah, Canadians! Canada is very lovely, very cold!” he mimed shivering. We agreed, laughing. He pointed us down the street. “Go there, over two steps, the number is 2874, you will stay there!” It was no good to protest, he pointed out the number on the key, patted me on the cheek again, and spoke a few rapid phrases of Italian. We went.
Two stairs over canals later, we found the door. Dark. We used the key to open the large door, stumbling into a dark area. I could just make out a desk to the side. There was a light deeper in the house, so we fumbled our way towards it. Our sweeping hands hit no light switches. Later on, I would discover the light switches were lower than one would think, and under a ledge. The staircase was a creaking narrow wooden affair, leading up with barely enough room for one with a backpack, and certainly not enough room for two to pass. The room was tucked under the eaves of the house, the underside of the slate roof visible above. The exposed wooden beams showed the signs of age, but also good treatment and regular care. The owner had mentioned an age in his stream of conversation, it may have been built in the 1500’s. The bed was a good size, and a nice springiness. We smiled at each other. We had found it!
Back at the restaurant, the server noticed we arrived without our backpacks, and he smiled at us. “I knew you would like it!” We went back inside, and told the owner we would stay for two nights. He beamed at us. “Of course you will!” He gave our passports to the server to photocopy, and yelled towards his cook for a pizza, and some other Italian words. He turned back to us. “Go and sit! You will have pizza, Canadian pizza I will make for you, on me!” We obediently sat in the outdoor seating in the plaza and looked at each other. I couldn’t help but grin, and soon it was laughter. A place to stay, and a mysterious dinner!
Canadian pizza turned out to be the typical thin and crispy crust, sauce, sausage and thin sliced meat with cheese. We ordered wine, paying 7 euro for a half litre. More than Greece, where we were paying 4 euro for a half litre. The wine was bold and went down very well indeed. So much so that we had to order another bottle to go with the tiramisu we were told we were also having. Again, on the owner. Sounded like a pretty good deal to me! Turned out that he had friends or family, it was hard to tell which, in Toronto or Montreal. He loved Canadians, and seemed to like to treat us.
While we had dinner, a group of six came in, with a girl about 10 in their party. They sat, and the wife of the owner pulled the girl inside. Soon, she came back out, wearing a little apron and carrying a tray of the glasses of pink and fruity drink. She got to work serving the glasses to her party! Justin and I wondered if the wife would next conscript her to help with the dishes. The scene was a merry one indeed, with the owner and wife clearly enjoying their jobs, treating the guests with familiar good cheer, telling some people what they would like, and telling people where to sit. It was nourishing to watch them work, to watch their enjoyment and affection. A distinct pleasure in contrast to the service in Greece. Some people there had also enjoyed their jobs, but most had seemed tired and slightly resentful, at the tail end of their tourist season. I know I am generalizing here, and there are variations in both places, but for the state we were in, it was a breath of fresh air.
Eventually we wandered away, walking down the streets and alleys and canals of Venice, exploring the city. By that time, it was after 10, and Venice is not a night city, not in the area we were in, at least. We headed back to the pension, and got a very good sleep indeed.
The Unique Hotel in Glyfada, Athens
The passport application had been made. We left them embassy and sat at a cafe, wondering what to do for three days in Athens. We had not planned to come back so soon. We had planned to have a few days on Santorini, then head back the night before our Athens to Venice flight. We had seen all the ruins we wanted, and were a little ruin-ed out. There are only so many times you can look at old rocks and keep being amazed. Well, only so many times I can, at least.
Justin did not want to stay in a hostel, especially the Athens Backpackers hostel I mostly enjoyed. It was loud there, it was true. And staying in bunk beds gets old, for a couple. I looked for a hotel, trying to keep within our budget. Things had been getting expensive lately, and if we had to cancel a flight, it was gonna get even more so.
Expanding the search parameters to near Athens, I finally found a hotel down the coast for 50 euro a night. Tripadvisor noted that it had been recently renovated, in a quirky fashion, with many unique features. It was rated as good for adults, not so good for families. Great, hopefully no kids would be there! It was in a good area, near the beach, and we could reach it by tram. Perfect. I booked a night there. We would get another if we liked it.
A couple hours of walking, bussing, and finally tramming, we arrived at the hotel. A woman in her 30’s or less greeted us as we walked in. I gave my name for the reservation, and admired her cat’s eye makeup. I could not get those broad bold eyeshadow techniques to work for me, whenever I tried it! She gave us a key, told us breakfast was included, but could be served in the room for an additional euro. We chose to come down for breakfast, and headed up to the room. Oh drat, I forgot to ask about checkout time, and she hadn’t mentioned it.
We swung the door to the room open, and saw quite the sight. Tho I had only booked the standard room, it appeared to be a queen at the least, or maybe even a king sized bed before us. My eyes travelled around the room. Green. The walls were painted green, with half the walls being taken up with foam half tubes, patterned in snakeskin. The green curtains hung in front of two big sliding doors that met at right angles, so that one entire corner of the room could be opened to the balcony. The wall at the foot of the bed was entirely covered in mirrors. I sat on the bed. Ah, nice and soft, not broken down. My eyes travelled up, and caught sight of myself, reflected in the mirror on the ceiling, next to the green chandelier. I blinked.
The bathroom was predictably tiny, in what I was coming to see as the European standard of one drain in the shower, one drain on the floor outside the shower, as there was no way to keep all the water inside, even if there was a shower curtain, and no hanger for the shower head. That was why you had two hands apparently, to hold the shower head and also wash yourself. The towels were wrapped in sanitizer service plastic bags, and there was two soap dispensers mounted on the walls, in addition to the more usual little bars of soap in wrappers. That was nice; you could choose not to waste little bars of soap for a short stay!
Justin and I unpacked our bags, and decided to go out shopping. Despite the beach being so close, swimming was not an option, as all Justin’s swimsuits had also been stolen, sadly including the new European style one he had just bought in Dubrovnik, and only gotten to wear about three times (much to my delight each time). As we left the hotel, walking down the spiral staircase, we paused on the floor below. Sure enough, the distinct sounds of female enjoyment were coming from a room on that floor. We grinned at each other. Someone was enjoying their stay, eager to have some quality time, tho it was still only afternoon!
It turned out we had ended up in Glyfada district. From what we could gather, this is where the moderately well-off Greeks went to vacation. The shops were mostly designer shops, and the restaurants authentic. It turned out that Greeks typically go to dinner around 9pm, and then clubbing at about midnight! So the restaurants we thought were deserted at 7pm were actually just getting ready for the nightly rush.
The stores were mostly geared for affluent persons, looking to add a few choice pieces to their wardrobe, not for budget conscious backpackers looking to recover from total luggage loss. We did manage to find quite a few quality places, and over the course of the two days we were there, found a new, if limited, wardrobe for Justin. We tried to find a new swimsuit, but as soon as we asked, the salespeople directed us to the swim trunks. We finally managed to find a more European style swimsuit for Justin, and in better colors than the last one had been.
The hunt for pants took quite a bit longer, but we finally found pants that fit Justin well. The pant style here is currently skinny jeans, dropped crotch, and baggy thighs. Justin wanted mid rise waist, snug crotch, and relaxed legs. It was awkward. We also finally found a sweatshirt with a fitted body, and sleeves long enough. A backpack completed the job, and sundries like shoes, socks, underwear. Finally, the basics for continued travel. It looked like low season was starting here as well. Not as soon nor pronounced as the islands, but sure enough, things were getting quieter.
Back at the hotel to drop off our new finds before heading out to dinner, we heard more happy sounds! Either they were going for round 2, or the mirrors in the other rooms were inspiring other couples as well.
We slept very well indeed. I woke once to hear the door of the room next to ours open. Hmm, quite the late check in, especially at the end of the tourist season. I drifted off, only to stir to half wakefulness by the sounds of passion in the room next door. Glad they had the energy for it, after such a late check in! I rolled over and cuddled up to Justin. Once more I was wakened by the sounds from next door. Plastic bag being rustled, a scrubbing and washing sound, new sheets being spread on the bed. There was room service at 2am here?!? Hmm, things were starting to come together in a certain picture here..
The next day, we decided to stay another night. Justin teased me for my chioce of hotels, but he was ok with our adult hotel. Once I went down and enquired with the young woman manning the reception desk (wearing less makeup than the woman from last night) I learned the room we had was booked for that night. Thus we embarked on a tour of the hotel, getting keys for vacant rooms, and looking for one that suited us. Every room in the hotel appeared to be different. It was an average sized hotel for European standards, so it had four floors with four rooms each. We looked at about half of them! Here was a room in tan, with a giant round bed. Here was a room in red with black accents. The ceiling was velvet covered, and had tiny jewels glued to it. This room had a massive bath, and lace black curtains hanging all over the room. There was a large throne like chair, done in black velvet and silver trim. Every room was unique, and all were quite clearly adult-themed. Yeah, I sure did find us an adult hotel!
We eventually settled on the tan room with an enormous round bed. The balcony was quite nice, and the bed was comfortable. And if some of the guests of the hotel stayed less time than one might usually expect, there were a few other travellers such as ourselves, finishing out the tourist season, and taking advantage of a cheap hotel is a ritzy area.
Marred Beauty of Santorini
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Places on October 19, 2015
Loss. It may just be stuff, but when it has been the only stuff you have relied on for the last month, the only constant things in a travel path that changes every other thing around you, it is reassuring stuff. The stuff you can count on, the pillow that is just right, the pants that fit in the color you love, the jacket with arms just the right length, the new shirt you bought in a neat store in London, camera, tablet, cellphone, the one-of-a-kind piece of jewellery everyone loves to comment on… it’s there. It supports your adventure. Until it is gone
After the loss of Justin’s entire bag due to theft in Santorini, he was left with a shirt (fortunately an Icebreaker), a pair of shorts, a pair of underwear, a pair of sandals, his wallet, and his good/ fancy camera. That’s it. No socks. No shoes. No passport. No pants. No clean underwear.
We endured a whirlwind of official encounters. Post authority police, city police, bus company. Finally make it to the hotel, after recovering the name via email on the computer of the kindly port policewoman who took quite a liking to Justin. Then Justin had to change all his passwords, inform his work of the loss of the cell phone, shut down the cell phone, and take other action to prevent the thief from accessing the data via the trusted device, should the thief manage to break the passcode on the device. Inform Gov’t of Canada of the loss of the passport.
Justin put on a brave face. We found some dinner, drank some wine, and even laughed a bit. But the silences were long, and the hurt was close. Bed time was late that night, and we were heartbroken. Stuff it may be, but as I unpacked my surviving bag, Justin sat forlornly on his side of the bed, taking out contact solution and a case he had just bought for his last pair of daily disposable contacts, the ones he was wearing. Gone were his glasses, new contacts, case, solution. His camera sat on the table nearby. My heart hurt. The person I care deeply about had been stolen from, was adrift on a foreign place. Hugs can only offer so much comfort.
Sleep that night was fitful and brief. I dreamed of running, of catching, of things slipping away from me, of falling. I woke again and again, the loss catching me anew, shattering my peace with the world.
The next day was taken over with more police encounters. Reports filed, cameras consulted. No news. No bag found. Everyone was shocked, this usually didn’t happen. The hope it was just taken by mistake dwindled. We were wounded. Gone was the delight we may have found in the island of Santorini, which is indeed beautiful. But for us, it was a poisoned beauty, marred irrevocably by the actions of just one lowly thief. To us, the island was shadowed, fanged and dangerous. Nevermind the logical thought of the risk. We were below average risk for theft now, having less stuff now. But logic doesn’t touch that primitive brain, which knows only a loss suffered, a danger present.
Justin contacted the nearest Canadian embassy, which was in Athens, a 9 hour ferry ride back the way we had just come. After learning we intended to fly out for Venice that weekend, they told us to come immediately to the embassy, the very next morning, and try to rush a temporary passport thru. We found out that a night ferry was leaving at one that morning, and we bought tickets. Goodbye Santorini.
Santorini Shock and Awe
Posted by Nadia in Getting There, Places on October 13, 2015
Once more the efficient ferry system of Greece whisks us away to a new island. We depart Antiparos around 9:30 am, and just miss the small car ferry that runs between Antiparos and Paros. (the Anti part of the name means little, and often seems to end up on smaller islands next to big ones). No matter, the car ferry makes the trip across about 2 km of water to Paros, crossing depths of no more than 5 meters the whole way, and then returns. You can actually see the bottom of the sea bed the entire way across.
Once across, we discover we have missed the bus from this small ferry to the big ferry port in town proper, about 7 km away. This bus runs very infrequently in the low season. Perusing the schedule, the next bus arrives a bit too close to the ferry departure we mean to be on at 11:40. Hail a cab? Ok, get the number first from a kiosk nearby. Might as well buy a beer, too. Try to make yourself understood to the person who speaks a little english, fortunately. No, send the cab to this Pounta, not the other Pounta on the other end of the island. Ok, cab is on its way. Probably.
The bus would’ve cost 2 euro each. The cab ends up costing 15 euro, but we make it in good time. Enough time to buy another beer, and a chocolate croissant. When I was hiking the West Coast Trail last year, I would’ve wrestled a black bear for a chocolate croissant. This one is delectably flakey, warm, and best of all: stuffed with dark chocolate. The ferry is late. The queue is in the shade at least, a little covered holding pen. One person lights up a cigarette, which is pretty good odds in Greece, and Croatia. If you don’t smoke in these countries, you might as well, as everyone smokes here, in all sorts of buildings. Why, just that morning I had gritted my nostrils and mailed a package in the thick air of the post office in Antiparos. My hair still smelled slightly of smoke.
Once on the ferry, I can happily report it is smoke free. So that was a great relief. The large ferry powers ahead at a pretty good pace, and is quite comfortable inside with plush chairs, cafés, and best of all, flat padded benches. Perfect place for a sleep!
The ferry made good time to Santorini, the island we have heard so much about. We arrive at about 15:00. Judging by the sheer amount of people on the ferry, it is not yet in low season. Sure enough, the ferry arrives at the “new port” of Santorini, and disgorges its passengers. A river of travellers disembarks, and we head for the bus. With much pointing and shouting, we ind a bus for Thira, where we can change busses for our hotel in Perssia. Drop the bags in the underbelly luggage compartment, and we climb in.
The ride to Thira is breathtakingly scenic. The road switchbacks up a sheer cliff, revealing the countryside in panoramic. This island was formed by a volcano that eventually blew the top of the island right off, leaving a circle of islands separated by the ocean, and a jagged rocky tumbled field of cooled lava rock in the middle. It is still classified as an active volcano, and I hear there are hot springs on the centre island.
The bus climbs along the spine of the biggest island for a while, before switchbacking down the other side. We arrive in Thira after a bit, and spill out of the bus right away. We open the baggage hatches, and Justin hands me out my bag right away. Looks like someone has piled their bags on Justin’s bag, not unusual on these buses! So he shifts a few bags. Then a few more. I go around and look from the other side.
No bag.
We dig frantically, and other people find their luggage until the belly hold is empty.
Justin’s bag is gone.
We look at each other sickly. For the first time, he didn’t take a small bag with his tech off his main bag. The only thing he grabbed was his wallet and expensive camera. Everything else was in that bag, Including his passport. One other passenger is kicking up a fuss. His bag is gone too.
I search again. And again. It is hopeless. The bag is gone. We start taking stock of the disaster, what is now missing. At least he has his wallet. But the SD card with all our pictures of the trip before Antiparos was in the bag. So they are gone, too. The blow is crushing.
Police reports, different languages, port authorities… passes in a swirl. The bag is gone. The pictures, Justin’s phone, tablet, small camera, all his snorkelling gear, all his clothing save for a pair of shorts and an icebreaker tshirt, his shoes…. all gone. And they probably aren’t just in the wrong place. Someone stole the bag off the bus.
Justin maks his police reports. I go back and canvas the port area. I talk to all the restaurant people there, asking them to keep an eye out. I talk to the car rental place, the bag drop place, the port police. Everyone is shocked that it happened. It is usually such a safe port. One older owner of the restaurant makes a few calls, all the busses are checked again. Everyone knows we lost a bag. No one finds it. The sun is setting. I am offered rides back to town, but I don’t know where we are staying. Justin’s cell phone was stolen in that bag, so we can’t communicate. I wait, everyone in port service industry knows my plights.
Justin arrives in a taxi. The bus company told him they would put me on the last bus back to town, free of charge. Sadly, they didn’t tell me that, and I waited at the port. We take the taxi to Perssia. The hotel is sympathetic, they offer whatever help they can in dealing with the police. We finally end up in the hotel room. It is about 19:00. Hours after we planned to arrive.
It is dark. I turn to Justin, trying to offer solace, trying to be strong. But I am shattered from this mishap, stunned by the brazen theft off a bus, humbled by the help offered by everyone who heard of our plight. I cling to Justin for one brief moment, and then he is off, to change all the passwords on the accounts linked to his phone, to his tablet.
Tomorrow we must go back and see if the surveillance cameras can shed any light on this. Tomorrow we must phone the Canadian Embassy in Athens, report the passport stolen. Too bad we didn’t write either of our passport numbers down. The day ends, sadly, but we are physically not injured by this crime.
Write your passport numbers down. Keep your passport on you at all times, or locked up, while travelling. Take your tech on board with you. We all mean to do it, but the bag would be a small loss if we had followed these steps.
Antiparos in the End
We are chasing the end of the season here. In the tiny island of Antiparos, Greece, most of the tourist shops are closed. The scooters for rent have all been put away. The myriad of taverns, cafés, restaurants, and take aways facing the waterfront have closed. A few remain, getting the last of the business, the servers relaxed and tired. The menu placed in your hands is a mere courtesy. What’s listed there is no longer available. Just ask for what is good, or what is being served tonight.
We had very tasty local sausage the other night, grilled over open flame and the glow of coals in the kitchen. It was delicious, and came with bread to sop up the juices. Wine is the one thing that is still plentiful. Well, the house wine, at least. But the house wine is delicious and cheap, so we drink and laugh, try the ouzo, buy fresh pears in the market that never closes. We lay on the beach in the unpredictable weather, windblown one day, and sunburned the next.
End of season in Greece.
Wherever you are, Be There 