Where I act badly…

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.