The Mediterranean is beautiful in a different way from the ocean, but it is as beautiful. The ocean has its clouds, its fogs, its glacous glassy billows, its sand dunes in Flanders, its immense vaults, its magnificent tides. The Mediterranean lies wholly under the sun, you feel it by the inexpressible unity that lies at the foundation of its beauty. It has a tawny stern coast, the hills and rocks of which seem rounded and sculpted by Phidias, so harmoniously is the shore wedded to gracefulness.
Victor Hugo
Tilos
Halki was such a surprising gift of pleasure and light, that we felt compelled to stay in Greece a bit longer. We caught a ferry north to Tilos, which fashions itself as one of the only 100% 'green islands' in the world. I can't predict how it will fare with the ever-increasing threat of development, but for now its myriad of trails are virtually empty. We happily woke before dawn every morning to climb old mule-tracks and goat trails over the mountains to deserted red-sand beaches. We relished this freedom to just head out into the country, the dessicated grain rose at dawn and golden at sunset, and the figs ripe for the picking. We walked and walked and walked, knowing that in no country ahead of us (with the exception of New Zealand) will we have this opportunity -- too many places lacking maps, and otherwise rich in land mines, venomous animals and bandits. It felt wonderful, and afforded us a lot of time to listen to the landscape and watch for soaring falcons and eagles.
Photos...
1.heading out on a hike
2. another sunrise from the trail
3. lighting a candle for Clay and Sarah Casey in a remote monastery
Such was the heady feeling of contentment, that one evening on the bus ride back from a small mountain village, I watched the passing countryside and drifted into a thoughtless reverie. Insulated by the soft chatter of foreign tongues, mostly Greek and Norwegian, I wouldn't have been surprised if the bus lifted off and drove into the heavens. Such are the surprises of travel. A thousand day-to-day routines, hardships and mere pleasantness, and then a sudden and all-encompassing state of bliss. It almost feels like a guilty pleasure, were it not the sacrifices necessary to his get us this far. The overwhelming feeling is, quite simply, gratitude.
Paul Theroux, respected novelist and travel writer, had a similar experience in the Mediterranean, writing in The Pillars of Hercules:
At the head of the valley looking west from the station of Ponte Nuovo I saw the snowcapped peak of Monte Asto, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be. Here, now, on this rail car rattling across Corsica under the massive benevolence of this god-like mountaintop -- this for the moment was all that mattered to me, and I was reminded of the intense privacy, the intimate whispers, the random glimpses that grant us epiphanies of travel...
I felt frivolous, almost embarrassed by my luck, at this thirteen dollar train ride past the nameless village plastered against the mountainsides, visited only by the soaring hawks... In German there is a word, Kunstlerschuld, which means "artists guilt", the emotion a painter feels over his frivolity in a world in which people work in a rut that makes them feel gloomy. Perhaps there is also a sort of travelers' guilt, from being self-contained, self-indulgent, and passing from one scene to another, brilliant or miserable makes no difference. Did the traveler, doing no observable work, get a pang of conscience? I told myself that my writing -- this effort of observation -- absolved me from any guilt; but of course that was just a feeble excuse. This was pleasure. no guilt, just gratitude.
We are currently en route back to Turkey. Peace to you all.
~Micah
Victor Hugo
Tilos
Halki was such a surprising gift of pleasure and light, that we felt compelled to stay in Greece a bit longer. We caught a ferry north to Tilos, which fashions itself as one of the only 100% 'green islands' in the world. I can't predict how it will fare with the ever-increasing threat of development, but for now its myriad of trails are virtually empty. We happily woke before dawn every morning to climb old mule-tracks and goat trails over the mountains to deserted red-sand beaches. We relished this freedom to just head out into the country, the dessicated grain rose at dawn and golden at sunset, and the figs ripe for the picking. We walked and walked and walked, knowing that in no country ahead of us (with the exception of New Zealand) will we have this opportunity -- too many places lacking maps, and otherwise rich in land mines, venomous animals and bandits. It felt wonderful, and afforded us a lot of time to listen to the landscape and watch for soaring falcons and eagles.
1.heading out on a hike
2. another sunrise from the trail
3. lighting a candle for Clay and Sarah Casey in a remote monastery
Such was the heady feeling of contentment, that one evening on the bus ride back from a small mountain village, I watched the passing countryside and drifted into a thoughtless reverie. Insulated by the soft chatter of foreign tongues, mostly Greek and Norwegian, I wouldn't have been surprised if the bus lifted off and drove into the heavens. Such are the surprises of travel. A thousand day-to-day routines, hardships and mere pleasantness, and then a sudden and all-encompassing state of bliss. It almost feels like a guilty pleasure, were it not the sacrifices necessary to his get us this far. The overwhelming feeling is, quite simply, gratitude.
Paul Theroux, respected novelist and travel writer, had a similar experience in the Mediterranean, writing in The Pillars of Hercules:
At the head of the valley looking west from the station of Ponte Nuovo I saw the snowcapped peak of Monte Asto, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be. Here, now, on this rail car rattling across Corsica under the massive benevolence of this god-like mountaintop -- this for the moment was all that mattered to me, and I was reminded of the intense privacy, the intimate whispers, the random glimpses that grant us epiphanies of travel...
I felt frivolous, almost embarrassed by my luck, at this thirteen dollar train ride past the nameless village plastered against the mountainsides, visited only by the soaring hawks... In German there is a word, Kunstlerschuld, which means "artists guilt", the emotion a painter feels over his frivolity in a world in which people work in a rut that makes them feel gloomy. Perhaps there is also a sort of travelers' guilt, from being self-contained, self-indulgent, and passing from one scene to another, brilliant or miserable makes no difference. Did the traveler, doing no observable work, get a pang of conscience? I told myself that my writing -- this effort of observation -- absolved me from any guilt; but of course that was just a feeble excuse. This was pleasure. no guilt, just gratitude.
We are currently en route back to Turkey. Peace to you all.
~Micah
love reading your entries
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