Zachster

It’s been over a year since my last travel post, and eighteen months since I returned from my first trip to Morocco, but I’m only now working up the gumption to conclude that story. I do this mainly so I can recount my recent travels with clear conscience that my previous experience will not be washed away by my failing mind. Already, many important details are gone and forgotten. But I will do my best to explain how we escaped Africa. I’m aided by the photos I took, which retell some of the story. But they end abruptly and leave quite a gap for reasons which will become clear.

The drive out of the desert is a mirror image of the drive in. Whereas we stopped at the Todra Gorge on the way in, it’s the Dades Gorge on the way out. After the uniform landscape of the Sahara, the massive features of Dades repaint the world as a diverse and volatile place.

And instead of fossils, like on the way in, we stop for the roses in M’Gouna. This is the seat of the Moroccan perfume and skincare trade. There are dozens of shops selling rose water and argon oil. It’s a bit of a letdown as we don’t see any fields of roses stretching on into infinity. I don’t remember why. Maybe they were out of season?

The climax of our tale begins as we arrive at the Kasbah Ait Ben Moro. It’s a lovely building filled with character and charm. It’s more modern than the others, with a full service restaurant and manicured grounds. After settling in and exploring a bit, we sit down to a well served meal. We order a bottle of Moroccan wine, and I explain to the waiter that I will not be having the mixed grill, as I only eat seafood and vegetables. I probably make a joke about being unable to find seafood in the desert. When he brings our food out, our waiter beams with pride as he presents me with a plate of something grilled. The owner of the Kasbah, he explains, is a big fan of seafood and personally offers me his fish dinner for the evening. There are two decent sized fillets that look bad and smell worse. But I felt there was no way I could refuse. In fairness, it might not have been the fish that set me down my dark path. I remember feeling a bit ookie even when we sat down for dinner. But Jenny felt fine before, and did have a taste of the fish. It was one of those, “this is horrible, try it” moments we all fall for every so often.

Or maybe it was the wine, or some food we’d shared the previous day. Whatever it was, it hit me first and Jenny a few hours later. Fever, delirium, cold sweats, bathroom emergencies of every variety. This is when the photos stop. My vacation reading was Paul Knowles’ The Sheltering Sky about two neurotic New Yorkers who visit Morocco when the region opens up after World War II. The book is a lovely tragedy that starts bad and ends worse. With that in mind, I lay in my darkened Kasbah room and think to myself how odd it is that I’m dying and that I know that I’m dying.

It’s a silver lining that my attack hit hours earlier. By the time Jenny came down with it, my worst had passed. It’s frightening to think what would have happened if I’d need the bathroom while she was in there. Of course if something horrible like that did happen, we would agree to take it with us to our graves, so you’ll never really know. In retrospect, I’m grateful to my body for dealing with the trauma without need of medicine or treatment. Had it done otherwise, this would be a longer and more harrowing story. By the morning, we were both battle weary, but mobile and ready to finish our drive back to Marrakech.

We booked a day at the end of our trip at the Sofitel in Marrakech as a way to pamper ourselves after our rugged desert expedition. The hotel is lovely with western amenities, a pool, and a world class restaurant. Instead of enjoying these, we spend fourteen hours dozing in our darkened room and ordering room service as we regain our strength. The next day we take a brief lap around the hotel so we can admire the features we did not enjoy. But we agree it was a fortuitous stop. If we’d gone straight from the desert onto an airplane, it could have been a painful return to western civilization. As it was, we escaped our illness before escaping Africa.

Jenny and I don’t talk anymore, but that trip remains in my memory as the most extreme of adventures. Bouncing from the joy and peace of the desert to the despair of death and disease will forever stay in my heart, and there’s no one I’d rather have shared that with.

I’ve been working on Blessable, in relative isolation, for a couple of months now. It’s kind of driving me crazy. Last week, I started venturing out into the NY tech scene to see who else was rowing a similar boat. This was before I got rejected from Y Combinator, but probably in expectation of it. If I’m not going to be part of that community, I better find one here.

Mike Lewis (of Eventlo) posted a real nice blog on the struggles of the solo startup, so he and I started emailing and he invited me to a MeetUp going down that night. It was pretty random. A bunch of (mostly) dudes hanging out near Shake Shack making rounds of introductions. But I saw a few people I’d seen at a YC event, so I figured it was the right group. Mike and his friends all turn out to be interesting. I only stayed for a bit, but it got me thinking about how much else there is out there for people in technology, and how fun it is to collaborate. I started Blessable because it’s something I deeply believe in, and no one else was focused on it. But with that comes a real dearth of interactions.

Mike is focused on Events, which is something I’m passionate about as a user. I go to a lot of rando events. Mostly without much information on them. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes it goes horribly wrong. I’ve thought a lot about better tools for event discovery and enjoyment. Mike seemed interested in working together, so we met up to talk about it.

I had this idea that we could fund a site by selling concert tickets. I went to a panel at CMJ where the Andrew Dreskin (founder of TicketFly) told his story. I thought he said their affiliate program paid “25 percent” of the sales to advertisers. In retrospect, that doesn’t make any sense, but I got Mike all excited and was pretty disappointed when I checked their site and realized he said “25 cents”. D’oh! Yeah, we’re gonna go and sell out MSG every month to make our budget.

But it still got me thinking about how I decide what shows to see. I get the Oh My Rockness newsletter and figure out what nights I’m going out. Then I have to go and listens to all the bands that are playing (most of them are unknown to me). It’s a real pain. Especially having to find their MySpace pages and navigate through that crumbling cathedral. I also like to figure out if there are a few shows close together, in case I want to make a quick getaway. These days, I guess I know where most of the venues are. But when I first moved here, this was a pain too.

So… on Thursday I built Hip.ly. Yes, it’s just a mashup. But it’s still pretty useful. Here’s what it does:

I get paid if you click the banner ad at the top of page. But it’s not like I’m expecting to quit my… oh wait… nevermind…

I think it’s pretty useful. I sure wish I had it for CMJ. I probably spent more time researching what bands to see than I spent building this.

If it seems like something more people want, I’ll integrate Facebook Connect and recommend shows based on what music people have “Liked”. If I do that, I can import more shows and add more cities. Right now I can’t do that because there’d be too much data. Oh My Rockness does a great job of picking out the quality shows. They’re the real brains of this. Hopefully they wont mind that I’m using their data. Maybe they’ll make some extra money from the ticket links I’m using.

Let me know if you have any thoughts or ideas on this?

It’s a whole new world, stepping off that boat and onto dry land. But the bumpy bus ride through the hills of Mykonos, South to Paradise Beach, brings back bad memories and fears of more cold sweats. It takes fifteen minutes, but feels like an hour. I’m in a daze as I check in to the hostel and dump my bags in the corner of my cabin. The white on white nothingness of the room is only briefly disorienting as I drop onto the mattress and sleep for three hours. I wake on the white sheets in the white room with the white storage cubby; the white shuttered window and door are closed to the fresh air outside. I’m suffocating inside an early iMac commercial.

I put on my swimsuit and step outside. I’m immediately refreshed by the cool ocean breeze under the hot european sun. The hostel is built just outside the beach, running in wide aisles of cabins and dormitories. I walk down the rows of identical bunkers, following the signs for BEACH –>. The large double doors open onto a food court with bars, food stations, and an array of eating areas. Beyond that, rocky sand. Beyond that, clear blue water.

None of the beaches in Greece have been very comfy. The sand ranges from gravel to granules with a few rocks and boulders thrown in for good measure. I wonder a bit on how Grecian beaches are always featured in those top beach lists of the travel journals and television shows. I wonder … until I turn from the natural beauty, however rough, to the clientele dotting the shore. The boys are sculpted and hairless, many holding hands. The girls are slim and tanned, many topless. Pop and hip hop blankets the sand from a dj booth farther up the beach. Dancers on tables spin inside the circles of worshippers. It’s mostly boys, piled up against each other, dancing, skin to skin. Farther out from the crowd, girls shake and bounce. This can’t be organic. It must have sprung from the screens of MTV beach houses across the world, teaching travelers what to do when they get to Mykonos.

I lay in the sand. I take to the water. I float. I drip dry.

I wander up the beach, glancing at the nudity as slyly as I can.

The Australians are hanging out too and we spend a while chatting. These aren’t the Australians from Paros (Livia, Van, Ngoc, Mina). They’re the girl friends (Amy, Kate) of the boy friends (Dan, Paul) of those Australians. It’s mostly Australians around here, I guess. Or at least they’re the ones speaking English and deigning to befriend Americans. We’re talking about the full moon party tonight at the beach club. It’s twenty euros, but promises to be a quintessential Mykonos night. It doesn’t get started until 1am, so I head into town to see what’s to see.

Like Santorini, Mykonos is adorable. Narrow streets snake through the town in a maze of art galleries, cafes, and shops. The larger venues are closer to the water, perched atop hills looking out over the piers. But the smaller ones, set further inside the maze offer more eclectic options. The paths through town are crowded. Tourists keep to lanes of traffic moving slowly past open doorways where the patrons are as pretty to ogle as the dishes and wares. I head closer to shore and eat at a cafe perched atop a cliff overlooking the water. I’m mostly killing time while I wait for the Aussie girls I left back in Paros to arrive by ferry. I’m finishing up as I see their ferry cross the horizon. By the time I get down to the port, it’s floated past and headed farther up the island. There are two ports on Mykonos, F your I. I picked the wrong one. It’s too far to walk, and I know they’ll have scattered by the time I make it over there. I say goodbye to my Aussie friends for a while and wander the streets, waiting for the clubs and bars to open.

The crowds are waiting for something. Everyone’s polished and dressed; too fancy for a night of wandering the shops. But it’s only eleven and the clubs stand open but empty. We’re waiting for a crash of revelry to let us know it’s okay to start the night. But by midnight the crash doesn’t come. It’s off in the distance somewhere, but running slower than my patience. I catch the bus back to the beach and wait for the full moon party to pick up. I stroll in around one am and it’s just starting to pick up. The headlining DJ isn’t on yet, but the dance floor is hip hopping around. It’s mostly boys dancing in big groups, with some girls satelitting near the edges. There’s a farther ring of straight guys trying to get the girls’ attention, but I don’t see much happening. The club is cool, dominated by a large swimming pool in the center. But it’s closed! And there’s no beach access from here! We can see the full moon overhead, but otherwise might well have been in town. Booze is pricey, and the bar lines are not long. An overflow of liquor would ignite the situation into awesomeness, but that’s not going to happen.

I mostly wallflower around and try not too look lonely. I’m not nearly as concerned with being lonely as looking lonely.

My favorite thing to watch is the group of Japanese boys improvising dance routines. I fear for a moment there will be a fight over who gets to be Neo in their interpretive Matrix dance. It’s a huge relief when they agree they can all be Neo.

Agent Greg is opening for Robin S (of the 90′s hit Show Me Love, obvs) and by the time he comes on, the crowd is jumping. Everyone’s having a good time, but it feels a little forced. Maybe I didn’t drink enough. It’s hard to let go when I feel penned in. It’s like one of those monster new years eve parties they throw. Everyone’s paid so much to be there, they’re sure as hell going to have a great time.

I check out around 4am with the party going strong. I saw what I wanted to see… plus a lot of dudes kissing. So it was a day well spent. I made the short walk back to my bleached beach bunker and quickly fall asleep.

Maybe it’s the ocean, or the sparseness of the room, but I sleep righteously here. I rise before noon and float in the ocean before I’m fully awake. I love the glamour and cuisine of this place, but all I really need is a good bed and a warm ocean. I head back to town and have an amazing lunch of muscles and risotto. The cafe is in a corner of town called Little Venice. There are no canals, but I dine on a balcony hanging over the sea. From the balcony next door, a little boy fishes with a little rod and catches a little fish. He goes inside for a little lunch. My wine is interrupted only occasionally by ambitious waves from the rolling water far below.

I’m back on the bus for some more time at the beach when I get a text from Van. We meet up on the sand, and I’m happy to be with a group again. Traveling alone is a vicious cycle of camaraderie and solitude; each feeding my need for the other. We lay in the sand and play in the water until the warmth fades at last. By then, the beach dance party has started (every day from 4pm to 8pm) and we ogle the gyrating crowds.

The girls wait for me to get changed, and we head back to town. Before going back to their hotel we stop at a market and buy a bottle of tequila and some mixers. Once everyone’s showered and dressed, we sit around a table and (one at a time as we have just one glass) down mixed shots of tequila and juice. When half the orange juice is gone, we fill the carton back up with tequila and start the walk back into town. By the time we get there, we’re nicely sloshed. Van especially seems toasted and eagerly grabs at the carton for more. Being the gallant gentleman I am, I finish it off to save her from further inebriation. It’s the least I can do…

Walking along the shore, we run into a young girl, playing alone with a large stick. It’s late. She’s alone. It’s weird. We strike up a conversation and get pulled deep into this odd story of hers. Her story seems made up, based on some things we tell her and things she’s heard from others. She’s from California. She’s from Orange County. Her parents work at a restaurant here. Something about the way she goes on and on terrifies me. I’ve seen too many horror films where the demon is a young child. I might actually be afraid of children now. At least when they’re carrying a big stick. As we’re talking, a number of people walking by stop and greet the girl by name. These are other tourists, and it seems like they’ve also been pulled into her stories. We play for a while, but when we leave, I feel like I’m running away.

This night is livelier than the last. The full moon parties at the beach clubs split the population but tonight everyone’s in town. We run in and out of clubs, trying to find what’s happening. A lot of them are empty. I’m especially sorry that “Jacuzzi” is completely dead. Photos at the door show half naked boys and girls dancing in a hot tub. But it’s a wasteland inside and we don’t want to be in there alone. A few of the clubs offer us free drinks to come inside. They’re all looking for that initial bump to draw a crowd. We stay for a while and take some silly pictures, but then move on to the next.

Mostly we stream down the streets, following the crowds. I think it’s the pressure of being a minority, but that’s no excuse for the hordes of straight men who roam the streets looking for girls to accost. They’re handsier than a drunk santa at an xmas party. It’s kind of a bummer to see this kind of behavior in a place where everyone is so friendly. At least they don’t seem to be American. I couldn’t take it if they were.

There’s a strong vibe that the night’s winding down around 2 or 3 when we run into Dan and Paul. I haven’t seen them since leaving the boat, and the girls haven’t seen them since Paros. Maybe Mykonos is only meant to be seen in the arms of gay men. They pull us deep into a club in Little Venice. We’d walked in this place before, but the throngs of men, grinding into each other soon pushed us back out into the street. Our respective genders and preference were found lacking. But with Dan and Paul, we slip quickly up to the second floor where there’s room to dance and booze. The guys are so fun, and there’s a steady stream of characters floating through the club. Bodybuilding boys dance with themselves in the mirrors, shirts off and eyes fixed. Tiny queens, dance with runway girls. Mina rides Paul like he’s a horse. Good times. Good times.

We stop about an hour after the sun comes up. Walking out bleary eyed into the morning light, shirtless men stand under a rainbow flag. It reminds me of the scene in City of Angels where the angels meet at the beach for sunrise. But they’re in LA, so the sun rises away from the water, so they stand with their backs to the ocean. Here in Mykonos, the boys stand with their backs to the water, facing the club where they spent the last six hours.

It’s my last day on the islands. I don’t want to miss anything, but I need a few hours of sleep. And then it’s back to the beach. We hit a different one this time. It’s a bit more posh and a bit less crowded. The rocky shore at one end has been crafted into a makeshift pool; the mossy rocks cushioning stone seats. It’s neat, but also a little gross.

We lay in the sand. I eat an ice cream treat. It’s a relaxing end to an exciting stay.

My ferry departs in a few hours for Athens. The end is in sight for me, and I pull in as much of the beach and ocean as I can.

My ferry to Mykonos leaves at noon, so I plan an hour to check out of the hotel, catch a taxi, and drive the four miles down to the port. But as I set off to the taxi stand, the hotelier gives me a nervous look and wishes me luck in a way that inspires panic. When I get there, a disorganized line of people peer back and forth across a one way street. “Who’s last?” I ask the crowd, and no one answers. I wait ten minutes and no taxis come. I walk down to the bus stop and the one loading up is heading to the airport and doesn’t know if one’s coming for the port. It’s that same feeling I get when my subway isn’t running, I’m late, and there are no cabs.

I start walking, but I know it will take me longer than I’ve got. So I stick out my thumb. A few cars pass that are mostly full. A few pass that are mostly empty. And then a little one stops and waits for me to pile in. I sit in the passenger seat with my suitcase on my lap, both so I can make a quick departure, and as protection against stabs to the chest. I was raised on a healthy diet of fear against hitchhiking and this is my first time. Somehow I survive. She’s Grecian, on holiday for a week. We share pleasant chit chat. All the while I’m bursting with excitement that I’ve hitchhiked. But she can only take me half way and drops me at the top of the sheer cliff wall, meters above the port. A series of sharp switchbacks leads down to the boats. There’s no way I can walk it. So I walk back a bit so I’m not standing at the hairpin turn and stick my thumb out again. Within seconds, an older man, speaking no English, pulls over in his pickup truck. I pile in, again with the chest stabbing protection method I’m perfecting, and we barrel down the road. When we get to the long line of cars waiting for inspection at the port entrance, he gestures me out and I walk the rest of the way. I’ve made it with fifteen minutes to spare.

The ferry’s been canceled.

There are large ferries and small ferries and when the winds are high, the small ferries get canceled. Many have been canceled over the last three days, so there’s a backlog of people waiting to travel to Mykonos. At the ticket counter, there are pleas and explanations and phone calls to travel agents, and many many wan looks. I feel equally guilty and proud over how little this affects my travels. When it’s my turn at the counter, I take my refund and ask where else I could travel today. I buy a 6pm ticket to Paros on a big ferry. I should have bought my ticket to Mykonos for the next day right then. The morning one sells out and I end up with a 9pm ticket.

I head over to the internet cafe to find a hotel in Paros. I pick a pretty random one near the port and beach. While I’m messing around, a girl next to me gets into a huge argument with the morbidly obese man running the cafe. I think it’s over the fact that she purchased a soda for “take-out”, but is drinking it in the cafe. I think there’s a price difference. They’re screaming at each other in Greek. People are very quick to yell and scream here. It might not even be out of anger. But the woman is very upset and the man is spewing forth a litany of hateful sounding words. It sounds like cursing, but I can’t be sure. The whole thing ends when she pays him four euros to keep her drink, but she keeps yelling at him so he kicks her and her friend out of the cafe. He just turns off their computers.

There’s a feeling of camaraderie at the port. Most of us had our ferries canceled, and we’re sharing plans as they’re made. I join a group of australians who are on my ferry to Paros. They’re living in London and working to travel. Their trip is almost as solidly planned as mine, and they take our detour in stride.

The ferry is huge, and the strong winds don’t push us around too much. But out on deck, it buffets me like I was back in the ancient city. I hold on to my sunglasses.

Paros is a small island, and it’s tourist population has ballooned thanks to the ferry cancelations and it’s proximity to Mykonos. There’s a lively atmosphere as we all shuffle off the boat and wander into town. The aussies leave their luggage in my hotel room. They’ll hobo it this night, sleeping on benches or at friendly cafes. It’s hard for me to accept, but I’m also envious of their freedom. We walk down the main drag and settle into dinner after one of the barkers calls them out on being Australian. They’re Asian, so they mostly get ethnic slurs from Greeks and tourists who’s senses of humor are outmatched by their cultural ignorance. It’s kind of amazing this dude calls them out on being Australians without hearing them speak. He explains that he has a gift for it, and points out a few other nationalities. We can’t confirm his picks, but the food looks good and we’re hungry.

After dinner, we buy a bottle of ouzo (the girls also share some wine coolers) and get drunk as we wander. At the end of the main drag is a fancy hotel with a pool around back. The place is deserted so we sit by the pool and drink from the bottle. I can’t resist and go for a quick swim (showing off my newfound diving skills). It’s cold, but the ouzo helps and it feels great to be sneaking into someplace. I finish it off with some very solid climbing; making my way up to a second story balcony that leads into an open maintenance closet. But it’s locked from both sides and I have to climb down again.

On the way back into town we pass a playground. There are swings and jungle gyms, and see saws. The girls get a laugh out of the term Teeter Totter for reasons I still don’t understand. The bottle’s gone at this point, and it seems like a great idea to have a round of obstacle course competitions. “Gladiator Games” as the girls call it. It’s a grueling course. Especially the monkey bars (I opt for going over, instead of under), but I think I pull ahead at the end. Maybe I cheat a little.

The whole trip, I’m on an early schedule. The habit of getting up early for the build site is hard to break. I need to get back to my hotel, but I feel bad leaving the girls to the cold hard streets of Paros at night. But there’s nothing to be done so we make plans to meet in the morning and try to sneak onto the early ferry together. I wish I could say it was difficult to sleep, knowing they were out there bedless, but I sleep hard and wake up early.

After a light breakfast, we head over to the port and wait with the crowd for the 9am ferry. There’s a question over whether it will be canceled. The wind is blowing, and when the ferry pulls up to unload, it bobs up and down against the dock like it’s on hydraulics. A couple times they stop passengers from disembarking while the water calms. Two more Aussies the girls met in Santorini are there with tickets for this ferry. They wait with us while we decide whether to make a go for it. We’re nervous about being turned back, also about getting sick from the choppy water. At the last minute, as the final passengers are climbing the gang plank, we decide to try for it. We put all our tickets in a pile and follow close behind the boys. But there’s confusion. Their tickets get torn at one line, and then we’re all directed to the line a the back of the ferry. In the shuffle, I board between them and the girls get left behind; a crewman explains their tickets are for the evening ferry. I bid them adieu with a quick glance over my shoulder and try my best to blend in with the ticketed passengers. I’m a stowaway!

Very quickly I realize I’ve made a horrible mistake. This ferry is tiny and all the seats are assigned. It looks like I’m the only one without a seat. I wander in the general confusion as people find their places and end up standing by a locked door looking out at the dock as it shrinks behind us. All the doors and windows are closed and I can’t feel any air conditioning. The boat convulses against the wind and waves. I focus on the horizon as I recount everything I ate for breakfast.

On the plus side, the unending stream of people to and from the bathrooms, and the slew of passengers standing to look out windows mask my intrusion. The crew passes out barf bags. I’ve got my headphones in, so I’m saved from any soundtrack, but I’m standing right near the bathrooms. Many go in looking sick and leave looking sicker. There’s a wheeled hard-case stored near me that’s constantly trying to slide across the deck. I lay it on it’s side and sit down for the rest of the voyage. I don’t lose my breakfast, but I’m overcome with cold sweats. Dripping. It’s only an hour to Mykonos, but it feels like three. It feels like years. I no longer feel like myself. I’m just some machine built to sweat and see spots.

Almost as soon as my feet touch solid ground, I start to feel better. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath for an hour and finally taken in a lungful of fresh clean air.

I commiserate with the Austrailians for a bit and we promise to meet up through our mutual friends in the next day or two. They pass me off to some more Australians who are staying at the same hostel as me and we board the bus to the beach.

The flight to Santorini is quick, but by the time I get out of the airport and into Fira, the sun is setting. The western edge of the island is a sheer cliff with hotels clinging to the wall, vying for sunset viewing real estate. Dozens of doors along the pedestrian path at the top lead to narrow walkways edging down the cliff. My hotel is on the top tier, providing a great view, but no hope for a pool. The risk is too great that a sprung leak would flood the hotels at lower ground. The room is lavish and the size of the soaking tub makes me fear for the safety of those below me, should I cause an overflow.

I spend the night walking the pedestrian streets of Fira. They’re littered with souvenir shops, cafes, and art galleries. I join the flow of traffic up and down these streets. There are a few clubs and bars, but they don’t liven up until 2am or so. By that time I’m exhausted and can only stand around and wallflower at the girls dancing on tables.

I’m still on my habitat schedule, so despite my relatively late night, I get up early and can’t find my way back to sleep. I only have a day or two in each of these towns, so it’s for the best that I get out and see what’s to be seen. I rent a quad bike to help me get around the island. I thought I’d go to the beach, but on my way there I see signs for Ancient Thira and follow some other quad bikes the rest of the way. It’s at the very southern tip of the island, atop a giant hill. It takes about 20 minutes to switchback my way up, passing foot and horse traffic all the way. It feels like I’m going way fast, but when I get to the top, I realize that the wind in my face was natural and not made by my ascent. It’s windy. Very very windy. My sunglasses are blown off my face. I feel like my shirt’s being blown off my body. I lean into the wind and feel it bear my weight.

The ancient city was founded almost three thousand years ago, but the ruins are a bit younger than that. Walking from marker to marker, I read about what once stood where now there are just some stone foundations and remnants of pillars. It’s equally disillusioning when the sites are complete recreations, but seeing nothing but low rubble leaves me a bit cold. The markers show floor plans, highlighting the parts of the foundation that still remain. I think a few perspective drawings, or a scale model of the city as it stood would go a long way.

Walking around, I meet Claudia from Milano. She’s just returned from a sea voyage with friends. One of them is a skipper and under his command, six of them rented a sail boat and cruised around the islands. It sounds like hard work, with a lot of unpredictability, but I must try it someday. It’s an hour wait for her bus so I offer to drive her down on my quad. She returns my generosity inviting me to the pool at her hotel (on the beach side of the island) where I can meet the rest of her crew. I’m not clear on all the relationships, but I think most of the guys work with her boyfriend Andrea for a consumer electronics company.

We drink and play in the pool for a while. Claudia helps me tons with my diving. Jeff kicks my butt at Crazy Eights. We walk to the beach for some lunch. It’s great being welcomed into their group, and i think they appreciate having someone to share their stories of their recent voyage. As soon as we pay, we decide to jump in the ocean. The group of us lead a somewhat mad charge down the shore. I want to rush into the water at full speed and swim out past the waves, but I’m immediately slowed by the coarse sand.

I’d heard nothing but praise for the beaches of Santorini (and the other greek isles) but this one is a bit rough. The sand is mostly rock, and just beyond the shoreline, there’s a field of stones extending far out into the tide. They’re slippery with algae and too close to the surface to offer room to maneuver out to deeper water. After stumbling into wave after wave for a minute or two, I just lay on my belly and float as best I can out past the crashing waves. Once I get some depth under me, it’s cold and clear and feels like air conditioning in the hot sun.

I split from the group, giving them a break from my eager friendship, and all of us time to get ready for dinner. Before heading back to the hotel, I take the quad up the beach and stumble around an old church looking for a geocache. I find it nestled in an old stone wall and filled with lots of neat trinkets. The logbook has a blurb about the region, and mentions a natural spring inside a cave next to a church near Ancient Thira. I can’t pass this up, so I get back on the quad and retrace my tracks back to the mountain. Santorini is not a big island, but I’m covering a lot of ground this day. I spend about an hour looking for this damned church and find a number of cool features. There’s a large cave set in the base of the mountain overlooking the water. It’s a prime spot for leaping out into the ocean, but there are signs everywhere forbidding it. I don’t see anyone else doing it and visions of my broken body sprawled on the rocks below keep me from leaping. I hike all over the place looking for this church and get a variety of conflicting directions from the locals I ask. I ascend back up to the base of the ancient city and hike over to a small cave that looks promising, but find only discarded furniture and supplies from the city restoration.

It’s not until I give up and head back to my hotel that I find what I think is the church. It’s all locked up, but there’s a wooden door set right into the face of a small rocky hillside. My imagination runs a bit wild wondering what sort of cave lays on the other side of that thin slab of wood. The cave pools always seem so primal and pristine. I feel like bathing in one would bring on an Altered States devolution moment or something. Next time. Next time.

Dinner is one of the best meals of the trip, and not just because I ordered everything on the menu.I haven’t been alone that much since I left Macedonia, but this is the first time since leaving Habitat that I’ve been with a big group. The wine flows as freely as the revelry and we eat for hours. I feel incredibly lucky to have met and been invited to join with such a fun and hospitable group.

We wander the streets for a bit, eating gelato and having another drink or two. It’s not a late night, but I walk back to my hotel exhausted. A few steps from my door, I hear the crack of fireworks and turn around just in time to see a large burst over the hotel next door. There’s no followup, but the afterimage of the fire in the sky stays with me as I crawl in bed.

The bus gets me into Thessaloniki around 3pm. It’s the second biggest city in Greece and the terminal is bustling. I’ve got my bags, and it’s deathly hot out but for some reason I decide to walk to the hotel. It’s about 3km, but I stick to the shade as much as I can and it’s not so bad. As with most cities, the area around the bus terminal is not the most picturesque. By the time I get to my hotel, I’m dripping. It’s a big place, but I’m surprised to see that it has over 600 rooms. When I see the size of mine, I understand how they all fit. But I didn’t book here for the rooms. I drop off my stuff and head to the rooftop pool. It’s amazing. It’s transcendent. It’s cool and clean and leaves me feeling brand new. I have a greek salad and a few hundred mls of wine and soak for an hour or two.

I’m only in Thessaloniki for a day, but my flight isn’t until the next evening so I spend the rest of the day planning my attack. I walk all over, casing out the next day’s activities. It’s a sprawling city, but as long as one is within a few blocks of the water, there’s nothing but charming taverns, shops and markets. It feels like a Santa Monica or SoHo. For some reason I didn’t get any photographs of the bustling crowds, but here’s a pretty and empty one.

There’s a pedestrian walkway along the sea wall with stairways leading down to the water. They’re narrow and slippery and there’s no reason to walk down them, but I do anyways. There’s a definite rhythm to the crashing waves, but I misjudge and get soaked. It’s still hot out and the water feels great… even though I walk around for a couple hours looking like I wet myself.

I make my way over to Molyvos for dinner. It’s the highest ranked restaurant on TripAdvisor and it does not disappoint. I have an overwhelming dinner of wine, salted fish, and risotto. The fish are large sardines, split down the middle and grilled perfectly. I had a lot of fish like this in Japan, but found them too tough and salty. These were amazing. And the risotto with shrimp still haunts me. In a good way.
I walk far along the seawall, past the touristy section. I’m inline with my hotel and it’s just a few blocks to cross in an industrial area. I cross some train tracks and look down the rails stretching for miles; all the way across Europe. As I get closer to the main street where my hotel lives, I notice a pattern of flashing, rotating lights outside a number of buildings. Red lights. Brothels! I peek into one with an open door and get eyed quizzically by an aged Greek woman dressed like a mourner. I hurry away back to my hotel.
My flight didn’t leave until 6:30, so I left my bags at the hotel and had most of the day to wander and explore. I saw a few historical sites, but mostly I walked in and out of the open air market, trying to keep from seeing the flayed animal parts for sale next to the vegetables and seafood.

Lunch was again amazing, muscles and anchovies. The anchovies were a bit more rare than I’m used to, and dripping with oil. A little slimy. But when they were gone, I missed them. I sit for a while and watch people stroll by. My favorites are the Orthodox priests. They walk around in their black robes and hats, often with their hands clasped behind their backs, like Santa Claus at graduation.

Before picking up my bags and taxing to the airport, I take one last dip on the stairs of the seawall. I’m in my swimsuit, but I know there’s a good chance I’ll travel through the airport still dripping. But it’s worth it. There’s no other shelter from the heat of the day. And I know that it’s this same water, a couple hundred kilometers away that will be lapping at the shores of Santorini when I land.

My goal was to stay off the beaten path and route my way through Greece onto some islands. I thought busses and trains would take me most of the way, and taxis could be used sparingly. But the bus system refuses to cooperate. From any town, one can get to Thessaloniki or Athens, but there are no routes connecting village to village. I did find busses to get me to Kastoria, but it was easier to just pay the taxi who drove me across the border a few extra euros to take me on to Kastoria. It was a nice ride through lush country. The border between Macedonia and Greece is an 800m no-man’s-land between two fences. It’s a barren desert cut through the rolling green hills. The was a subtle difference after crossing. I noticed a lot of cultivated trees fenced in to front yards, and small houses spaced more closely together. But largely it is the same land.

It’s useful to have a GPS. Without it, we’d be stopping and asking for directions at every turn. It’s kind of like cabbing in Brooklyn.

When we arrive in Kastoria, the driver leaves me outside what I think is the hotel. But there’s been a problem. The booking site I used wasn’t finding the address properly so it dropped a pin in the center of Kastoria. I realized this a few minutes after the taxi left. After a brief period of accusing the hotel I’d been left at that they were indeed my hotel, I realized what happened. The hotel I’d booked was a couple miles north of town in an area called Chloe. It looked far on the map and I felt I’d be too distant from the city center to easily tour around. On the phone with my hotel, I tried to get out of the room but couldn’t explain my situation. I acted badly, pouting and complaining. I do this when I don’t get my way. It’s unseemly. It was no one’s fault, but I made myself the villain. I grumbled through my cab ride north and my check-in, bemoaning my woe; ignoring the fact that the hotel was beautiful and two stars nicer than any other so far on this trip.

After cleaning up a little, I made the long walk back to town. The road curled around the lake that drew me to Kastoria. I’d heard there was swimming and water skiing, but the lake was a deep green with swirling currents of algae. It didn’t smell right, either. But the walk was nice, and by the time I reached town I was eager to find a meal. I found a tavern overlooking the square in the old part of the city. They were out of fresh fish, but I had a tasty smoked trout salad and a glass of wine. I tracked down a geocache just off the city center. It was a film canister hidden inside a lamppost by a bench. Maori and I are always looking inside the bases of lampposts for them, but never finding any. Maybe it’s only done in Greece. It was getting dark, so I took a taxi back to the hotel and let the food and some sleep finish the job of curing my gloom.

The included breakfast was a broad array of greek treats, including coffee that was somehow made in a pot under hot sand. Afterwards, Margarita, the owner offered to drive me into town so I could rent a bicycle. She took a long and scenic route and gave me a great tour of the town. She and her husband also work as civil engineers and have been restoring buildings in the historic older city. The numerous Byzantine churches dotting the hillside are closed for renovation but she offers to have the museum officials open some for me. I politely (I think) decline and try to shrink deeper into my shame at being so snotty about the hotel’s location. I’ve set myself up as a victim and am being flooded with hospitality. Were I not feeling so uncomfortable about it, I’d consider it a good strategy for getting excellent treatment in the future.

Kastoria is an interesting shape. The lake makes something of a cartoon mouth, agape surrounding the uvula of land on which much of the city rests. At the Southern edge of the peninsula I rent a squeaky mountain bike and set off for some sort of archeological village a few miles away. None of the translations make much sense to me, but it’s a nice distance away, and promises to be mostly outside. A fork in the road offers me the choice of the dig site, or the eco-museum. I hit the dig site first.

It’s completely deserted. Abandoned. Rectangular pits stand as wounds against the grassy field: their walls eroding and their floors sprouting tall grass. A few of the pits descend to water level and are filled with algae. I walk nonchalantly closer when all the sudden there’s a distributed explosion of movement across the surface of the pond. I take another step and round of movement; slightly smaller. Every step I take sends a flock of frogs hopping to safety. I actually squeal with laughter.

Another pit is dotted with an array of thin tree stumps. They’re jagged and petrified, poking out of the ground. Around them, the land has dried with alkaline stains. I can’t imagine what it could be except the remains of some dense tree grove. But when I bike over to the eco-museum I realize that these posts are the foundations of a hut. The village that had been here some 2500 years ago was built on the shores of a river, the huts lifted on stilts as protection against animals. The recreation is charming, complete with raised platforms and walkways. Each hut is decorated with an assortment of ancient tools and weapons.

I bike back to town and tour the newly opened Dragon Caves Margarita told me about. It’s hot hot hot outside and at the doorway to the caves I’m hit with a blast of sweetly cold air. The caves are lower and more sprawling than the ones I saw in Matka, and the path winding through leads us over a number of reflecting pools. The caves were discovered some fifty years ago when a road was being built nearby. Some local boys stumbled into it. I wonder how long it took them to tell anyone. If I thought I could hide it for myself, I might never have told. The guide told me one of the boys is still in the town. He’s seventy-five.

I spend the rest of the day browsing around town and eating as often as possible. The anchovies are so good and the wine so cheap that I’m constantly getting drunk and eating more. Ohrid had a festive atmosphere that I don’t feel in Kastoria. I don’t know if the mood has been changed by the condition of the lake, or if it’s just less of a vacation destination. While Kastoria is bigger than Ohrid in population, I think Ohrid ranks higher as a destination for Macedonians than Kastoria does for Greeks. But it’s a charming place, and the lack of tourists makes me feel like a local after even the short time I’ve spent here.

The next day I taxi to the bus station and purchase my ticket to Thessaloniki. It’s a two or three hour ride straight East across Greece. The Mercedes bus is ridiculously comfortable, and I drink in the country side as I make my way towards the sea.

My plan was to head to Thessaloniki after my time in Skopje and then head down the Greek coast to Athens. That’s the route Macedonians recommended. Whatever issues the Greeks and Macedonians share with each other, Thessaloniki (and specifically Halkidiki) is seen as a great escape. But on urging from my cousin Annabel, I decided to venture West to Lake Ohrid. I don’t consider myself an easily influenced person, but this whole trip has been motivated by whims. It’s not hard to change my mind when it was never set firmly in the first place.

The bus took about three hours and pulled into town in time for a late lunch. The short hike from the bus stop to the hotel showed me most of the village center. I passed the open market, packed with vegetables, and the short strip of shops catering to the beach crowd.

Hotel Alexandrija sat just meters from the lake shore, and my room was full of windows looking out over the water. Small boats dotted the horizon as children jumped from the seawall into the shallow water. After a quick lunch of salad and trout (caught in the lake maybe?) I made a quick arc around my corner of the lake, checking out the beaches and planning my attack. It wasn’t quite what I expected. Instead of any sand, the beaches scattered along the shore were full of gravel, or merely slabs of concrete offering some lounge chairs or a flat surface for a towel. And where there weren’t these ‘beaches’, children played on the pedestrian walkway and jumped in and out of the water straight from the walls, or little stone stairways leading down into the clear water. The most inviting spot to me was a short pier that lead to a concrete platform stretching out into the water. It had room for a dozen or so sun bathers and a few kids playing just off its shores. Either from ancient settling, or recent quakes, the platform had cracked and canted in a few places, creating private regions to camp and take in the sun.

I’d been worried about traveling alone. My time in India felt artificial and stifled. But the further I get from that trip, the more I think it was my mode of travel more than my lack of companions that made me uneasy. Too much had been planned out, leaving me too much time to dwell on my solitude. Finding my way on my own, and planning my itinerary as I go takes up enough time and effort to make this whole trip an adventure.

And without a firm timetable set by a travel agent, I was free to wander into the night, taking in sights of lake. I was trying out some long exposures, trying to get some decent photos of lights across the lake when I noticed a girl caught in the frame. I thought she might be interested in seeing the picture. When this type of impulse strikes me, it’s hard for me to resist. I come up with all sorts of reasons not to… dwelling on how awkward it will be, and how unnecessary. But it’s just my fear  keeping me in seclusion. I learned long ago that the shame of letting my fear win out is worse than any awkward memories I’m left with. So I walked over and sat down. Elena is a master’s student in computer science at a university in Skopje. We had a nice amount of things to talk about and ended up at a bar, joined by her friend… a motion graphics animator (I’m so bad with names)… drinking and talking for a few hours. And so my first night in Ohrid, and my first night on my own, ended full of company and liquor.

It was hard to sleep past eight as light crowded my room, so I pulled on some beach clothes and found a nearby omelet. My only goals for the day were to get some swimming in and maybe take a boat ride. I’m not swearing off sand beaches anytime soon, but there was a great security laying out on the hot concrete of the island off the pier. With music and audio books to occupy my mind, it was a couple hours before I got into the water and splashed around. The island was perfectly situated with some nearby shallow areas, and some deeper where the bottom could be neither touched nor seen.

I tricked a pair of sisters into making conversation by asking them to take a picture or two of me. Tanja and Emilija grew up in Kocani on the Eastern end of Macedonia. Tanja was home for the summer from Milan where she works at something (“a nurse, but not a nurse”, she said), and they visited Ohrid to get some sun and water.

After wrapping up on the island, we agreed to meet up later and walk around. We climbed steep steps up into the hills to check out a church, and stopped in to see a quick demonstration of how local paper is handmade. It was kind of like magic when the papier (is that right?) dipped his screen into the milky liquid and sifted out a shallow film of wood pulp. Flipping the screen over onto a cotton rag, the pulp immediately became a thin sheaf of paper. Magic.

The highlight (for me) was taking a small boat ride, just before sunset, out on the lake. Most of the other boats were gone, but we hailed one as it unloaded a group of passengers. I thought there might have been a dispute (in Macedonian) between the girls and the captain over the lateness of the ride, but they settled on a price and we all got in. As we’d waited to board, an older man came up in a small panic. He was holding a large remote control (the kind used for a car or plane) and was pointing out at the waves as he spoke to the captain. Out far from shore, a tiny sailboat bobbed in and out of view. Not only would we see the sunset, but this would be a rescue mission!

I noticed from our time in the water that Tanja was no fan of the waves. She went in up to her waist, but no deeper. I should have realized she wasn’t a fan of boats either. Maybe it would have been okay if we’d left earlier when the water was calm. But as the moon rose in the sky, so too did the waves on the water. We were tossed about like the lost model ship we were sent to save. We never got more than a splash or two, but as we crashed into the waves, the boat leapt up and forced us to hold with both hands onto the metal frame holding up the tarped roof. The model ship never seemed to get close, no matter how far we pushed from shore. When we were finally upon it, I realized it was much bigger than I assumed, and had only looked so small because it was so far away.

Once we’d hoisted it into the boat, and glanced at the setting sun, we all had plenty of time to dwell on how unhappy Tanja looked. My reaction to fear is to burst with laughter. I suspect that made things worse. We asked to be taken back to shore several times, but the captain felt a duty to give us our money’s worth. He did head back, but took the long way and dropped us a kilometer down the coast from where we started. But it was a nice walk back and we were happy to be on dry land.

We spent the rest of the night drinking (maybe just me) and eating and walking around town. In the central square, some sort of beauty pageant was being held and we stopped to watch for a moment. It’s a shame we were all so tired from our travels that we couldn’t stay awake late enough to take in the Ohrid nightlife. We went by a jazz club that was supposed to be hopping, but at 11pm, it was still empty. Elena had told me that the crowds would not come until 1 or 2am.

But my time in Ohrid was the perfect end to my stay in Macedonia. I came to work and did my best. I enjoyed the people and the food and my adventures. The next day I left by bus for Bitola where I caught a cab to Florina, Greece and on to Kastoria.

This was a shorter build project than the one in India, and Saturday was our last day. We finished strong, moving mountains of dirt to lay septic pipes, and glueing up meters of mesh to stand against the next quake. There was a real sense of accomplishment, inspired by the job foreman who seemed genuinely impressed. It was a contrast to the professionals in Delhi who seemed unsatisfied by even our strongest efforts at the most manual tasks. I’m not sure how to attribute this, but it gives me hope for future trips being as fulfilling.

There was a concert in Veles that night, promoted all over town with flashy posters highlighting a Brittney look-alike, framed in Cyrillic headlines. I thought it would be a nice adventure to usher us out of town, but the team leadership thought it would be too late and too risky. Instead we planned to hit the city center and get a little drinking in. But after the walk back to our hotel to change, I pooped out and left the younger kids to their own adventures. It’s been a struggle finding my place when there’s such a big age gap between me and everyone else on the project. I don’t want to be ‘that guy’ hanging around the teens, but I also don’t want to hole up in the hotel alone. Often my exhaustion after the days work makes the decision for me, but this night especially I slept restlessly until they returned well after midnight. And when one of the boys errantly walked into my room to crash, I knew some good drinking had been done and was glad they made it back safe.

The next morning we were up pretty early for our ride back to Skopje. It would be a day of sightseeing to close out the trip. But the murky silence around the breakfast table spoke of the price being paid for last nights indulgences. With bags packed, and eyes droopy, we loaded onto the bus and set out for our last day.

A few nights earlier I’d set a precedent for asking the bus to pull over after a dinner with a particularly large amount of Rakia and water. In all honesty I hadn’t wanted to use the bathroom at the build family’s apartment. Maybe that makes me a bad guest, but I didn’t want to open any doors on things I might not want to see. So I made a small joke apologizing to the girls on the bus who couldn’t really participate in our pit stop, and then invited the boys to join me. I was saved some embarrassment when three or four of the guys appreciatively followed me off the bus. So when one of the young adventurers lurched up the aisle and whispered to the team leader and driver, and we slowed to a stop, it was pretty clear what was going on… until… in fits and starts he barfed all over a team member sitting to his right. All over. It was really awful. I looked only through gaps between my fingers, but still saw more than I needed to. It was a perfect storm of too much drink, too much breakfast, and too bumpy a bus ride.

We stopped for a bit at our Skopje hotel (where I’d stayed earlier in my trip) so everyone could clean up and get some air. All in all, it was handled as well as could be expected, with sincere apologies, ample cleaning supplies, and tips for the driver.

Our day’s excursion took us to Lake Matka, an artificial finger of a lake, created by damming a river. There was a little church, and a pretty righteous bat cave. We spent a few minutes exploring its crisp and cold interiors after traversing the lake on a small boat very much like the ones on Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise. It was only after our light lunch that we realized the real fun was to be had playing upstream in the river just before the dam. The current was fast, but support structures had been built to make sure anyone swept away had something to grab before being washed too far down river. While we waited for the bus to negotiate some tight turns out of its parking space, a few of us slid down the embankment, crossed a shallow stream, and stood in the cold cold shores. It felt like it was about fifty degrees; an absolute heaven compared to the ninety degree air.

We made it back to Skopje without further eruptions, and gathered near the hotel for our farewell dinner. Memories were shared, wine was drunk, and fun was had by all. We were a few men shy as our team leader and local coordinator had to bail out on this last day as they’d been invited to meet with the Macedonian president. And one of the teens had left early. So it was a smaller group than we were used to. I was surprised by how much that changed the dynamic. But it’s not often that things all end at once. This more gradual departure seems more common.

So today I found myself back on my own, on a bus headed West to Lake Ohrid on Macedonia’s border with Albania. I was well directed and had no trouble finding my way, but I was still filled with excited anticipation. Most of the solo travel I’ve done has been under careful watch of guides and travel agents. The rest of this trip will be something new.

Each apartment building has three stories. The top two have balconies and a long floor to ceiling window down one long side. They’re framed by the cement floor and pillars holding up the ceiling. For reasons that weren’t explained to me, cement risers must be poured at the foot of these openings. It seems like the sort of thing a wrought iron railing might be laid onto. To pour the risers, we build a box out of scrap wood around a row of rebar lattice. It’s just a form to hold the cement in place while it sets, so it doesn’t have to be pretty and it doesn’t have to last forever. But it has to stay put while we knock the cement around and make sure it’s filled the form properly.

Can I draw attention for a moment to how this is a metaphor for all this habituating for humanity I’m doing? These buildings will not stand for centuries. The cinder blocks are a loose foam of concrete; light weight and stackable. Those are cemented together and coated in mesh and glue to bind the walls tight. I think it’s designed to stand up under Macedonia’s frequent earthquakes. Regardless, this development lacks the organic charm of the build family’s current neighborhood. We went over for dinner last night and had to navigate a maze of hillside streets inaccessible by van. Locals strolled through the square and kids played games in the street. The scents and sounds of supper called us in all directions. We piled into their small living room and crowded around a long table that must have been built for the night. Dishes were passed and bottles emptied. Family was everywhere.

So why move on from such a trove of tradition? Why leave your friends and neighbors to build a new community amongst strangers sharing only your ability to navigate non-profit offerings? Why move from streets built over centuries to a fringe complex pieced together by volunteers?

Whatever the neighborhood and whoever the neighbors, this is a step up. This is home ownership (yes, the build family pays 1/3rd the cost of the unit, and works alongside the volunteers). It’s a home that will alleviates economic stress and gives the family the structure and time to set like cement into the middle class.

So while the work here is similar to that in India, here, there’s a force of progress pushing me forward. There we were building brick bunkers that will outlast the shacks and shanties surrounding. We anchored those families into the slum built just for them. But this feels like something of a halfway house for home ownership.

Or I could be completely wrong and this complex will be an oasis of awesome in Veles. Either way, I feel good about the work I’m doing.

The cement pouring took a couple days, but today I returned to digging; just in time to get new blisters over the recently healed. The dry heat pulls sweat from my body as fast as I can guzzle more water. I spend the day soaking wet in the ninety degree shade. But as I find a rhythm to my picking and shoveling, and as I pull lungfuls of hot and clean air into my body, I feel driven by a solar powered motor to keep moving. Two hours into it, I’ve burnt up any meals I’ve recently eaten. By lunch or dinnertime, I’m ravenous. I eat as much as I can of the items within my diet. More cucumbers, more tomatoes, more cheese. Sometimes fish. Sometimes mushrooms and corn. Always Rakia.