Marveling at the Wonders of Greece

Sandra Bertrand

 

From that first step on Greek soil, be prepared to feel a little lightheadedness—a certain dislocation of everyday certainties is underway.  In the midst of a busy Athens intersection, Hadrian’s Arch, once a gateway to some of the greatest of Roman monuments, stands proud in the midday sun. On the Aegean island of Santorini, one dizzying gaze over the precipitous volcanic cliffs and the rumble of lost Atlantis may sound from the depths below.  Navigating another hairpin turn in Crete’s White Mountains, a cri-cri or wild goat leaps in front of your car window—its hooves as nimble as the Great God Pan’s. As the wandering scribe Henry Miller once said, “Greece is the home of the gods; they may have died but their presence still makes itself felt.”

 

Athens

 

Athens has been called the birthplace of European civilization, inhabited for nearly 7,000 years, since the Neolithic era.  Unquestionably, the height of its grandeur occurred in the 5th century BC, when Pericles commissioned many fine buildings, foremost the temples of the Acropolis, meaning “high city.” Originally the site of a Mycenaean king’s palace, almost all traces were wiped out in the building of the Parthenon itself.  But it was the Bronze Age king that intended the spot to be for the worship of the goddess Athena. 

 

Let’s face it.  The Acropolis is the primary reason—the waiting crystal blue waters of the Cycladic islands notwithstanding—why one books an airline ticket for the meeting place of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, and the like.  At first glimpse, heading for the old city, or Plaka, with its winding cobblestone streets and hawkers for take-away trinkets, visiting a world-class monument doesn’t seem like such a prodigious undertaking. Choosing a taverna at the base of “the Rock” as it’s affectionately called, a watermelon and feta cheese salad with a Nescafe frappe as a chaser, seems like a good preparation for the adventure ahead. A wide path lined with pink and white oleander welcomes an ambling August morning assembly of tourists and school children.  A boy nonchalantly plays “Never on Sunday” on his accordion while a daredevil young man poses on a shaky stubble of rock, the still active Theatre of Herodes Atticus as a backdrop. In his right hand, the extension rod of his camera is raised high to record a “selfie” portrait.

 

Within minutes of the gradual ascent, it’s obvious that the great steps are a mass of resistant limestone and marble and one is surrounded by a huffing and puffing horde of humanity, all anxious to reach the top.  Not for the feint-hearted, a gaggle of guides are on hand to lead the way and keep everyone in step.  The propylaea or “gatehouse” is the first to greet the onlooker and to the right, a delicate temple to Athena Nike (the goddess of victory).  An ample empty courtyard which once housed a 50-foot statue of the goddess is now a spot for limitless picture-taking with the Parthenon within close view. 

 

If possible, keep the head above the hustle of bodies, for treats await the patient eye.  It was the great sculptor Phidias who designed every column in the Parthenon so that it swells a bit in the middle but appears to be perfectly straight.  On the east pediment, a cast of a reclining statue with a rearing horse’s head still nestles in the shadows.  Replacement casts of the Caryatids (female statues used in place of columns) can be seen on the porch of the Erechtheion, where a single olive tree is visible—as legend has it a descendent of the one Athena herself planted. But  the original Caryatids (not to be missed), along with casts of the famous Elgin Marbles (those originals still situated in the British Museum) are now housed in the Acropolis Museum.

 

 

If this makes the Acropolis with its ancient statuary and friezes removed seem like a shadow of its former self, it still remains even in the heat of noon day an inspiration.  And the 130 million-euro museum in its honor is a masterpiece of design, created to insure that the acid rain damage over the last several decades will not do any further destruction.

 

To leave the sweltering heat to the intrepid National Guards or evzones posted at Syntagma Square, a trip to the eighth-floor roof garden of the famed Hotel Bretagne is the perfect way to contemplate living history.  From the cool of the front bar and a welcome gin and tonic, one can no longer spy Greta Garbo or Melina Mercouri (a heroine for the return of the Elgin Marbles if there ever was one) among the swells, but the beloved Acropolis is impossible to miss through the spotless surrounding glass.

 

If nothing else (and there’s plenty) Athens is a metropolis of museum marvels.  The National Archaeological Museum houses finds from the Ancient Agora, along with an absolutely stunning gold Mask of Agamemnon from the grave circle at Mycenae.  Standouts are the Archaic kouroi statues that hypnotize with their oversized eyes and a bronze Horse with the Little Jockey.  This remains a piece of sculpture to rival any Remington horse and rider of Old West fame.  An enticement to the Minoan wonders to come from Santorini and Crete, the fourth floor’s exquisite frescoes of The Young Boxers and another of exquisitely detailed lilies must be sought out.  The only drawback was the almost nonexistent gift shop on the main floor—a minimal number of reproductions were visible in a glass case but a minimal staff to assist.  In light of Greece’s current economic plight, a more entrepreneurial spirit could be a consideration.

 

In contrast, the Museum of Cycladic Arts, opened in 1986, has a wealth of take-home treasures for the so-inclined.  More importantly, it’s an enchanting storehouse of Cycladic marble figurines, dating back to the 3rd millennium BC.  Found mostly in graves, the use of these primarily female figures remains unknown.  There’s an almost alien elegance and simplicity in their form that holds the viewer in thrall.  The Cyclades is a name that derives from “kyklos,” meaning circle because these 50-six islands surround the sacred island of Delos.  Its art developed on a parallel to the early Minoan culture on Crete. 

 

No farewell to Athens would be complete without a visit to Mt. Lycabettus.  The highest point in Athens, it rises 277 meters above the city and affords a magnificent view.  From the trendy Kolonaki district it’s a step-by-step climb, unless you opt for a taxi for the remaining ascent before boarding a waiting vehicular.  A small chapel to St. George greets the visitor, along with a restaurant best for dining alfresco and watching the lights come up at twilight on what else?—the Acropolis.

 

Santorini

 

After a pre-dawn taxi ride—commandeered by a beefy Greek matron whose smoker’s cough and hellbent determination to get me to the Piraeus port on time—all my kali mara good mornings were put to rest.  A reserved seat ticket was a fiction at best, the steward simply waving his hand to a spot facing a single coffee counter as I watched an oversized family of Asian tourists and backpackers quickly fill all the available window seats.  Little matter, as I was soon dozing off to a dream of volcanic eruptions and Lost Atlantis.

 


 

Did such a place exist?  Maybe we’ll never know but a certain Professor Spyridon Marinatos believed it when he began excavations of the ancient town of Akrotiri in 1967.  What we do know is that a violent explosion around 1450 BC turned the round Southern Aegean island of Thera, as it was named by the Dorians in the 8th century BC, into a huge crater, or caldera.  The resultant tsunami devastated Minoan Crete.  Today, from Agiou Mina, the street that runs along the crater’s edge, the view is indescribably beautiful.  Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni, island remnants left from the long ago eruption, wink from their blackened luster below.  Thirasia in the background and Aspro Nisi complete the fragments that once were part of the whole—a whole that once functioned as the cultural capital of the great Minoan civilization.

 

Sampling the island’s famous Assyrtico wines, cultivated by making the vine into a nest or Kouloura, is a rare treat, as are their fava bean dips, cherry tomatoes and capers, a direct result of the rich volcanic soil.  Many restaurants are within view of the mule path that carries visitors from the old port, resting 885 feet below, as they climb the 580 steps to the main town of Fira.  A cable car is also available and a less jaunty excursion by far.  To trace the seaside path from Fira to Imerovigli is a walker’s paradise and the reward is a breathtaking glimpse of Skaros, a brownish behemoth of a mountain that was once a Venetian stronghold and can still be hiked in parts.  After a strong quake of 1956, houses have been rebuilt into the volcanic cliffs with terraces, many turned into expensive hotels.  So much has changed since an earlier trip I made when the houses were few and a black-garbed widow walked her single goat along the road, offering fresh milk for a drachma or two.  Still, the clear blue sheet of sea below remains unchanged and doesn’t disappoint.

 

Akrotiri with its ongoing excavations is a must-see.  Marinatos and his team managed to unearth an entire 3,500 year old city after an eruption in the 1800s had brought French archaeologists to the scene to investigate.  Today the frescoes mentioned earlier, ie. The Young Boxers, are happily ensconced in the National Archaeological Museum. The three-story excavations are protected under an elaborate sunlit rooftop, with a flyover-style bridge that enables one to freely roam the site.  The Cave of Nicolas is a short walk from here and provides indoor and outdoor dining as the sea practically laps at one’s toes.  Marinatos suggested that “Uncle Nick” turn his cave home into a taverna for his workers, and it’s worth a visit to enjoy the day’s catch.

 

Sunset over Oia on the northern tip is worth a bus ride (or a moped for the truly adventurous).  A legend persists that vampires still rule the white-washed houses of this outpost and if it’s possible to break away from the helter-skelter comings and goings of the day’s tourists, the narrow labyrinthine streets still project an eerie stillness.  Not to worry, it’s quickly broken by the majesty of the landscape beyond.

 

Crete

 

This is an island that doesn’t give away its secrets easily. It was only after 3,000 years that the ruined palaces of a great Minoan civilization were discovered at Knosos and Phaestos in particular. The sophistication of the discoveries has truly made it a wellspring of European culture.  One-hundred-and-fifty-five miles long, it’s best to accept the challenge and begin in Irakleio, the island’s capital, a settlement since the Neolithic era.  A ferry arrival from Santorini docks within view of the city’s fortifications and fortress from 13th century Venetian rule. It’s a formidable sight as evening falls, and there’s a certain comfort in quickly finding one’s hotel near the harbor. 

 

The main reason for visiting Irakleio is its Archaeological Museum.  Bull’s heads used for ritual wines and snake goddess figurines abound, as does a delightful octopus vase and other hard-to-miss treasures. But for sheer magnificence, the Hall of the Frescoes will amaze for the sheer artistry of its creators.  Colors intact, with his crown of lilies and feathers The Priest-King fresco from the Palace of Knosos is another delight; no Renaissance prince could outdo this royal.

 

Knosos is next on the list and only a few minutes by car, one is carried back through the centuries.  It is here that King Minos and his dreaded Minotaur held sway in the popular imagination. The end-of-summer crowds have not abated but the entire site is massive enough to hold the legend-seekers.  Not surprising, it is Phaestos that brings the quieter pleasure.  Situated on a ridge overlooking the Messara Plain, the breezes blow kindly through an overhanging grape arbor upon entrance.  Like Knosos, the ruins are largely of the second palace; the first having been destroyed in a 1700 BC earthquake.  It is here that the famous Phaestos Disc was discovered.  Of round clay, six inches in diameter, its pictorial symbols spiral from its center, its meaning still withheld. 

 

It’s been a worthy visit, whether or not one is headed for Matala.  But the winds are shifting toward sun and fun and Matala, with its sweeping swimmer-friendly bay and pitted sandstone cliffs over the local beach, is beckoning.  Once rumored to be the shipwrecked site of Menelaos, the husband of Helen of Troy, it became in the 1960s a hippy haven—a passing reference is made in Joni Mitchell’s iconic song, “Carey.”

 

A final destination and maybe the best one for discovering the real Crete and its people, is the city of Chania.  Fought over by Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Genoese, Turks and Egyptians and finally unified with Greece in 1913, the Germans invaded its shores in 1941.  A side trip to Theriso, a small village nestled away in the nearby mountains, revealed the Museum of National Resistance, dedicated to the heroism of the people who fought so valiantly during the German occupation.  Blowup photographs of the fighters lined one wall and some stirring photographs of the Nazi cruelties to this proud people. 

 


 

The Venetian harbor with its impressive lighthouse is the main focal point and provided some of the best people-watching imaginable.  Conversations in pigeon English, Spanish, Greek and German were struck up in its many tavernas.  One night there was a couple from Malaga in Spain, who had visited the States on a teacher-exchange program in Pennsylvania; another a pair of retiree travelers from Bergen, Norway impressed by the ease of direct flights; and not to be forgotten, an enthusiastic young couple from southern Hungary met on a side trip to Balos, a far western promontory accessible only by ferry, who had never seen the likes of Crete before.  Few Americans were encountered on this island.  With all its attractions, that remained a mystery.  Perhaps the economic unrest and Crete’s southernmost position in the Aegean were overall factors. 

 

Staying in a charming small hotel in the Splantzia Quarter with its wooden balconies, it was easy to be thrust back into the past, if not quieter at least more accommodating.  Every meal ended with watermelon and a small pitcher of the local raki and no resistance was allowed.  Breakfast was almost always accompanied by the muzzle of the owner’s hound upon the glass tabletop and dinners by one or two cats at table leg looking for a handout.  Tips were also an unsuspected surprise to most of the waiters which made us realize the ingenuousness if wariness of so many Cretins. 

 

To quote Henry Miller yet once again from The Colossus of Maroussi:  “Marvelous things happen to one in Greece—marvelous good things which happen to one nowhere else on earth.”  I’d wholeheartedly second that.

 

Author Bio:


Sandra Bertrand is Highbrow Magazine’s chief art critic.

 

For Highbrow Magazine

 

Photo credits: Sandra Bertrand; Joanne Drapiewski; Depositphotos.com

 

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