Greece: Stumbling Upon Legacies

Summer 2014

Every year, Becky and I promise ourselves that we won’t travel in Turkey during Bayram (the Muslim holidays), and every year we forget about that promise until we are securely fastened in deadlock traffic on a bus attempting to leave the city. A trip I took to Canakkale a few years ago was 4 hours longer than it should have been, our trip to Lesbos island last year was 5 hours longer, and now here we were, on the only road leaving south out of one of the biggest cities in the world, and everyone in the city had the week off.

Samos Island 

We were headed to the beach city of Kusadasi on an overnight bus from where we would then head to the Greek island of Samos. Samos would be the first of four stops that would eventually end in Santorini in time for our friends Melis and Leedham's wedding. After Samos, we would be heading to Syros and then a short stop in Mykonos before Santorini. A lot of our friends from Istanbul would be there and Becky and I saw this as a great way to see everyone before we left for Beijing.

Our friend Rachel was also heading to the wedding and also had the week before the wedding off,  so we decided to slow boat and island hop our way to Santorini together. Rachel met us in Kusadasi but was on a later ferry than us, so Becky and I took the ferry across and sorted out inter-island ferries, hotel rooms, and car rentals--  a forte of Becky's.

Traipsing about rivers and canyons on Samos

At first glance, Samos seemed no different from Turkey. Restaurants catering to Turkish day-trippers were advertising kebabs, menus were written in Turkish instead of Greek, horrible Turkish music was being blasted from competing speakers up and down the street, and packs of affluent Turkish tourists were moving about the town taking in all of these sights.

Sunset on Samos

Becky and I couldn't rent a car and get out of there fast enough. We had a few hours to kill as Rachel wasn't getting in until that evening, so we traveled over to a neighboring beach with some ruins on it that was pristine and beautiful in its water, sandy beaches, and Turklessness. So overjoyed with this discovery, I proceeded to firmly and tactfully place the rental car in a sandbar where any attempt to dislodge myself resulted in putting the rental car in a bigger and bigger predicament.

Waiting for our ferry

Being on holiday and all, we more or less walked away from this problem and headed to the beach where this problem would be out of sight for the time being. Our hopes were that it would miraculously fix itself. That usually happens right? It didn't, but the next best thing did happen. A tow truck came along and had a winch and by my overly pronounced gesticulations and the fox hole I had dug the car into, he was able to ascertain the root of my distress. Within minutes, we were pulled from the sandbar strangle hold and thanking the nice Greek man with universal signs of gratitude to which he responded with universal sings for being happy to help. We went back to the ferry, picked up Rachel and drove to our hotel clear on the other side of the island.

About an hour's car ride from the ferry port, the west side of the island was more or less deserted.  We had it more or less all to ourselves. The hotel was great, the seaside promenade was full of cafes, and the seafood was fresh. The beaches were not so great right at the hotel so we spent the next day beach hopping our way around our side of the island. The afternoon was getting late and we had aimlessly found ourselves at the very remote tip of the island in a village that doubled as a dead end to the highway we were driving on. We stopped to stretch our legs and grab some water at one of the only cafes there was. We sat down and were about to order some drinks when the nice old woman came saddling over to our table.

“Courgettes?” she asked with a big smile before we even had the chance to say what we wanted. She was a short, stout woman with a flour-caked apron and her hair haphazardly pulled back in a hair net.

“Just 3 waters and 3 cokes please, we're not hungry,” Rachel retorted.

“Yes, yes,” she wrote down our drink order on the old and thin pad of paper she had just dug out of her apron pocket. She feigned as if she was going to go back to the kitchen when she added, “three courgettes?”. With her thumb and pointer finger pinching her notepad, she complemented her question with her other three fingers pointed toward us.

If it hadn't been for her very friendly demeanor, her stout, grandmother-esque amiable personality, and her never-waivering smile, her courgette obstinacy may have been seen as an annoyingly over-stepped boundary. But since the sun was shining, we were on holiday, and we were currently overlooking the ocean  on a porch that offered panoramic views of the sea, we decided to humor her.

Rachel, Becky, and I looked at each other and acquiesced more because we had been worn down rather than being persuaded. “Ok, we'll try one order of courgettes.”

A view from the road to the cafe 

She smiled and quickly put pen to pad while saying, “Maybe one courgette, maybe later 3 courgette,” and scurried off to get our drinks.

She returned with our drinks, three empty plates, and one small platter of courgettes that she put down between us. We thanked her and she motioned for us to eat. The bite-sized courgettes did, admittedly, look appetizing. She continued to stand there with her hands behind her back, rocking from toe to heal, waiting for us to taste the recommendation that she had forced on us. We each grabbed one, roughly the size of a jalapeno popper, turned it over in our hands, and popped them in our mouths. Being very aware of her presence, we all barely had them in our mouths before we turned to her to blanketly express how good they were. It was awkward that she was standing there and we figured faking how much we liked them would get her to go away, but after a few more chews, we were dumbfounded at how amazingly tasty these things were.

In case you are like me, and are very unclear as to what a courgette actually is, it is a zucchini. But  these  were the zucchini flowers, and what made them special was that these bite-sized zucchini flowers had been stuffed with herbs and feta cheese, breaded, deep fried, and topped with olive oil and other local cheeses. It was so incredibly amazing that words here would not do it justice.

Rachel, Becky, and I barely looked at each other before we turned to the woman signaling for two more plates of her specialty. She let out an unguarded burst of laughter and skipped back in the kitchen to make the other two batches.

We stayed there well into the evening, munching on courgettes, resting out of the sun, and talking. We couldn't believe a) how good our appetizer turned full on meal was and b) that we had just merely stumbled upon such an amazing little facet of Samos.

These courgettes, we would find out, were her life's work. She was famous throughout Greece for them. We mentioned and recommended this place to several people after this and found out that this smiling old woman in this tiny village at the end of an old road, in a nearly deserted section of this island, had a very well-established reputation for these courgettes. We even had a friend in Istanbul who had heard about her from a different friend who had sought this lady out years before this.

These courgettes were her legacy. The thing she was known for. The lifeblood of this village that people came to for (making her pushy deliver of them a bit more understandable). It's a bit crazy to think that we were so close to not knowing about this. We chose to drive down this road for no reason really, just to see where it went until we ended up at a dead end and became thirsty.

Post courgette beers at sundown

Most of our time traveling to distant places is spent in search of things, areas, and activities that we had researched and known about. Things we had either learned about before we left for the trip or had found out somehow while we were on the trip. Going to Jordan to see Petra, Egypt to see the pyramids, Amsterdam for the canals, Sri Lanka for the ruins, Greece for the beaches – and I suppose for the courgettes as well. Some of these legacies are known to all, waiting for you to have time to seek them out, but others just have to be stumbled upon, making them all that more incredible.

Ferry from Samos to Syros

The ferries between the Greek islands are less like ferries and more like cruise ships. So when the three of us piled onto the ferry to Syros, we had to choose which floor, by which food court, and on which sun deck we wanted to sit. It was a view that never got old – endless expanses of blue in all directions with the cool wind on your face from the steaming ferry. The ride was less a tiresome transport and more an Aegean sea tour allowing us to see more of the sea was  speckled with islands throughout the ride.

We arrived in Syros late and barely made it to dinner before crashing at our apartment. The next day, Rachel, dead set on reading her book by the pool, did not want to join us on our trip around the island so Becky and I rented a motorbike and circumnavigated it, stopping off at any little secluded bay that might offer us some nice views and clear swimming. We made it all the way to the end of the island where the road stopped above the high cliffs allowing us to peer out into the distance of the horizon.

Hotel on Syros

Motorbike ride around Syros for the day

She drove, I took pictures

Views from the motorbike

City center before we boarded our ferry

Even though these islands were well connected with several different ferry companies that would take you where ever you wanted to go, standing on that cliff side still instilled a feeling of how isolated these islands were. How, throughout time, these different places have cultivated their own sub-culture that is only specific to the social and physical make up of that island, molded over time to both reflect a specific culture and be a reflection of the people who have influenced it. Each island was slightly different in its own special way, people going about their lives in a way that makes most sense to their island. Cultivating crops indigenous to only them, catering to different nationalities that visit, embracing lifestyles from circumstances dictated to them and making a life out of it.

From the wedding Villa

We spent the day on Mykonos before ferrying to our main event: Santorini. We arrived a day later than most of our friends and we found that they were already very entrenched in holiday mode. They had all but taken over our hotel, racked up substantial bar tabs, and donned goofy, pre-wedding attire that drew even more attention to the boisterous giddiness of a large group of friends on holiday.

Our hotel on Santorini

After dinner, girls peeled off and went back to the wedding villa with the bride-to-be and the boys headed into the city with the soon to be ex bachelor. Santorini, beautiful and bustling during the day, transformed into a gorgeous array of lights, sounds, and wind whirling around on the island's cliff edge at night 

(missing 8 hours of trip here – woke up back at hotel fully clothed)

The next day was the big day. Everyone seemed to wake up a bit late and groggily made their way to breakfast. While most of us muttered things about not being ready to face the day, Becky and I headed out to explore a bit of the island. We walked around the cliffs to the nearest beach and quickly realized that Santorini must not be known for their beaches as much as for their views. The beach was small, crowded, and surprisingly dirty. The red volcanic sand had turned the water an ugly brown and the longer we stayed there, the less we enjoyed it, so we opted for a lazy afternoon eating Greek salad and hanging out at the wedding villa with the wedding party.

The view from the wedding villa rated among some of the better ocean views I have ever seen and it was all done from the infinity pool that was on the main deck. We swam in the pool and sat on the deck staring at the caldera and the city on the far side of the island. I went to the bathroom and when I came back, it was as if a switch had been hit. The mood of the villa changed drastically. A huge stress cloud was now shrouding over us and the gravity of the day seemed to be setting in for the most important parties. Girls were running around with curling irons and make up bags, boys were grabbing tuxedos and freshly polished shoes, so Becky and I decided to make our leave until it was time to commence the wedding. We took a bus back to our hotel with the groom, best man, and anyone else who valued their lives and didn’t want to be at the mercy of the crazed bride’s maids.

Hours later, we made our way back to the site of the wedding-- Becky in a dress and me in marginally longer shorts than those which I had been wearing before. With the time of the wedding exponentially getting closer to us, so was the stress to get things done in time. Becky, Ben, Chad, Rachel and I stayed as far away as we could – knowing that any proffered contribution to help would only make things worse.

Trying our best to stay out of the way.

The wedding started a bit later than had been previously planned but it was all for the better. The sun had a chance to set a bit and was not directly in our eyes as it was moving below the horizon. The heat of the day had also subsided a bit to make the suits and dresses people were wearing a bit more tolerable. The ceremony was very special. Melis and Leedham were finally getting married. They had been together for years, long before Becky and I arrived on the scene in Kadikoy and I really got a kick out of how nervous they still were. I don’t know a couple as comfortable with each other as them and I found it incredibly endearing how nervous they were to do something that they had been planning to do for years. 

Becky and I hadn't known them as long as a lot of the people that were currently at the party, but we felt honored to sit among them and watch these awesome people, whom we have grown to love, declare their love for each other in one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. Everything was perfect. Everything was playing out like a storybook. Everything was – wait, where was Pete?

I looked around the crowd and realized that Pete was nowhere to be found. Pete, having stayed up pretty late the night before, seemed to have lost track of time. As soon as the ceremony was over I jumped on the quad that someone had rented and drove down to Pete’s hotel to pick him up. I met him on the road walking up, looking as if he had just woken up. He had.

The rest of the night was a combination of fun, friends, several more courses of food than was completely necessary, and an indulgent amount of mojitos. I made it a point to pull Becky aside at some point just so she took in the grandeur of the night. This was one of the last outings with these people we were going to have. Everything would be changing soon. Regardless of for better or worse, everything would be changing.

Views from around Santorini

My thoughts brought me back to the smiling old woman in the village at the end of a highway we had just visited. There are an infinitesimal set of narratives where Becky, Rachel, and I never stumble upon her courgettes, just how there are an infinitesimal set of narratives where Becky and I never get the opportunity to stumble into the legacy that we were currently among at this party: the legacy of this circle of friends. The relationships that we forged, memories made, and stories we shared over the past 5 years could have very easily have never been. That is a sad thought to me. Everything about life is fragile-- our literal lives and how we navigate them, the relationships we encounter, and the impact of the choices we make. Maybe that is something Melis and Leedham figured out when their nerves were getting the best of them on the altar; the fragility of their lives and how precious that makes it. Precious because it could have just as well have never been, it could have been something else entirely. Not to say that whatever that was wouldn’t also be great, but it would not be great like this. So whether you seek legacies out or stumble upon them, appreciate them for what they are: a gift. A gift that could have just as easily have never been, a gift that could turn into something great, and a gift that should be celebrated.      

Books read: 

I am Pilgrim - Terry Hayes

The She-Wolf of France - Maurice Druon (Accursed King Series #5)

The Lily and the Lion - Maurice Druon (Accursed King Series #6)

The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss (Kingkiller Chronicles Series #1)

  
 

 

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Sri Lanka

February 7th - February 22nd

My February winter break was fast approaching and I had still made no plans. Becky and I had different breaks, Europe was cold and I wanted to get out of the country. I did a Google search at work one day about the best places to go on holiday in February. The islands of Thailand came up first, Goa next, then Rio. I had already been to Thailand, if I were to go to Goa, I would want to go when I could see more of India, and the plane ride to Brazil would be too long and expensive.

“Ok,” I thought, “What about best places for January? If it's good then, it would have to still be pretty good in February, right?” Sri Lanka was on the top of the list.

I was able to talk a couple of other friends into joining me on this 2 week trip through Sri Lanka: Co-workers Kirk, Duwane and Sylvia. They all needed very little convincing, Kirk least of all who agreed to come pretty much before I got the entire sentence out inviting him along.

We flew in to Colombo on an overnight flight with Arabian Airlines. Despite what visions of luxury, grandeur, or customer pampering you may think Arabian Airlines elicits as you roll it off your tongue, let me just say that Arabian Airlines is a flying piece of shit. At every available avenue the airliner was trying very hard to convey that they were a budget airline that you will never want to travel on again. They were looking for some way to tack on some sort of tax here, a baggage or meal fee there, or even a “please-do-not-raise-your-voice-to-the-flight-attendant” fine somewhere – but we'll get to that.

There were two things that caught my immediate attention as we collected our bags and exited through the doors of the airport that ushered us into this new country:


1. The humidity. As soon we walked out of the door we were met with an inescapable wave of wet air washing over us, drenching us like a warm bucket of urine on a cold day. At first it is amazingly refreshing but feelings of relief quickly ebb as the discomfort and knowledge wash over you and you realize that this, is here to stay.

2. A sign that read: Anyone caught smuggling drugs in or out of the country will face a punishment of death. This is the type of sign that catches your eye I suppose.


After circumventing the usual melee of taxis trying to take us into town, (“All the buses are broken, I will give you a good rate!” “The bus station is four kilometers walking distance, uphill!” or “I will show you Colombo tour for free!”) we found the bus station (20 meters from airport entrance) and made our way into town.

Kirk and I desperately tried to enjoy our day in Colombo. We walked through the markets, the seaside and the downtown quarter but it just was not worth doing. I was very happy with my decision to book a train that night to take us to the beach as soon as possible.

We woke up the next morning, clear on the other side of the country in a place called Trincomalee. Trincomalee is a tiny little sea village known for its fishing and, apparently, not known for its tourism. Kirk and I stayed in a bungalow right on the beach which was nearly void of any other travelers or tourists. Itineraries tend to take people to the southern beaches and not the eastern ones, I would later find out. This worked for me. I spent two days laying on the beach, watching fishermen haul in massive catches of fish by hand and reading my book. Nights were spent at various watering holes and beach side bars.

At the base of Sigiriya Rock

After leaving Trincomalee, Kirk and I headed south to meet up with Duwane and Sylvia who had flown in a day later than us. We met up in Sigiriya at one of the most important archaeological sites in the country. In the center of beautiful Sigiriya is this enormous column of rock towering nearly 700 feet in the sky. The steep climbed is interspersed with ornate, well preserved frescoes and remnants of buildings, amphitheaters and various signs that this area was once heavily populated. The climbed was well worth it. At the top were beautiful gardens and a 360 degree birds eye view of the surrounding area.

The next few days were spent in the mountains of Kandy. Kirk and Duwane stayed back one day while Sylvia and I braved the public transportation and headed out to the neighboring villages to hike along a path we had heard about and to visit different temples and monasteries in the area. That was the highlight of my time in Kandy, an area of Sri Lanka that we did not see again.

The four of us were enjoying an evening beer at the only bar in town (we struggled at times to find a place to sit down and have a drink) when someone overheard us talking about our plans to grab the train through the hill country and head out to Adam's Peak for the sunrise hike.

Adam's Peak: One of the main attractions for travelers in Sri Lanka is climbing up Adam's Peak at 3 in the morning to witness one of the best sunrises Sri Lanka has to offer. Travelers make the trip out there just for this – sacrificing a night of sleep for this amazing experience of watching a sunrise high atop Adam's Peak. But Adam's Peak isn't just any 'ol peak, it is the very place that Adam touched down, leaving his footprint in the side of the earth for all to marvel at, or so the legend says. Except, depending on who you talk to, it might have had something to do with Buddha's left foot indenting the ground, or again, if you talked to a Hindu, it was the footprint of Shiva. For some reason, deities really liked this goddamn mountain.

Getting back to the woman in the bar...as you probably know, deities really like being worshiped by people: songs, gatherings, ESP, and on special occasions, pilgrimages. Poya days (Adam's Peak pilgrimage days) were every full moon during the dry months, and tomorrow, as it of course turned out, was a full moon. We thanked the girl for the heads up and thought about what to do. We didn't have time to stay another day in Kandy and none of us (except Duwane, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about climbing up some big ass mountain in the dark just to see something that happens every day. Why don't we care about every sunrise of every day in every country we travel to?) wanted to miss out on this experience. We decided to go there early, climb the mountain during the day, be there for sunset, then climb back down. If the things people were saying were true, we did not want to be anywhere near that mountain in the middle of the night on a Poya day.

We took a beautiful bus ride through the rolling hills of the high hill country and finally made it to the base of Adam's Peak. We checked into our pension, dropped our bags and started charging up the hill. Duwane took a separate bus to the next destination muttering something derogatory about religion and wishing us luck on our hike.

Hiking outside of Kandy

We started walking up the hill at 3 in the afternoon. The mountain rose high and beautifully out of nowhere, thousands of feet from the base of the village. It was a daunting task from the bottom and it would only be made more difficult by the expected tens of thousands of pilgrams that night. The three of us made good time walking up the hill. The mountain was very lively and jovial. Every few steps, we could hear a different group of people chanting, cheering and singing as they climbed. This was obviously something that they relished doing. They would stop on the stairs for food, drink, conviviality and for the occasional dry heaves. The stairs got steeper and steeper as we climbed higher and higher into the clouds. One hour turned to two and two to three. Dads were carrying toddlers on their backs, pairs of women were heaving massive bags up the stairs, each of them holding on to one strap and all the while people were singing, laughing and carrying on. This was not a labor for anyone, this was something they were all happy to be doing, and no one was alone.

From the base of Adam's Peak

As we neared the top, I could tell that we were almost there with plenty of time to spare when all of a sudden, the wall of people trudging up the stairs came to a standstill. No one was moving up anymore. People were still singing and dancing, but they were doing it in their stationary location now. I looked back just to see more and more people lining up behind us.

After about an hour in a line that moved a few stairs every 5 minutes, it was apparent that we were not going to make it for sunset. The chants got fewer and farther between and what once was not a laborious task, became a laborious task. We contemplated turning back but didn't, having spent so much time already invested in this damn mountain, we persevered. Towards the top we realized what the hold up was, everyone was lining up through this tiny little door frame to ring a bell at the apex of the mountain. People were becoming antsy, pushy and in every way irritated. Every time we thought we were going to turn a corner and reach the top, another top would crop up. Finally, we made it with the last glimmers of sunlight showing over the furthest mountain tops in the distance.

“Well,” I said, “That's that.”

As the pinprick of remaining sunlight faded, there was nothing else to see besides our own tired faces, so with little pomp and even less ceremony, we began our decent of over 6,000 stairs. I found the entire experience incredibly fascinating (and at times, a little irritating). We estimated that there might well have been 100,000 people on the mountain that night. As we descended the mountain, we passed the ever-growing wall of people stretching miles and miles from the top, snaking down the side of the mountain; everyone at a standstill. They were all singing, dancing and happy to be on this pilgrimage on this clear night. Whether they were Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or Hindu they climbed the mountain together, letting people pass by or helping others up, indiscriminate of who that person might think is the owner of the footprint at the top. For all of my thoughts on religion, I found this to be a very touching sight to see.

Sylvia and I at the top

A long time ago, I read a book called 'Fury' by Salman Rushdie and as I stumbled down the mountain on my wobbly legs, I remembered something he had written that for whatever reason,came to me at the time. Rushdie wrote:

“If fraternal love held all men bound, how beautiful life would be.”

I feel like I almost caught a glimpse of what he was talking about on this mountain. In our lives, we all have agendas in one sense or another. Things we plan on doing, need to do, strive towards; promotions we are seeking, girls we are courting and money we need to save. In a lot of cases, and in a lot of ways, it would be easy to accomplish these things on the backs of others - pushing others down as we give ourselves a leg up, putting our needs over others' , regarding what we need as superior, more urgent and less trivial. On that mountain, whether it be Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, or the occasional atheist in the crowd, hands were offered, songs were sung and eventually, the lined did move and people did get to ring that bell.

Our jello knees made it down the hill and the next day we made it down the mountain and over to Ella. Now, for the whole trip, I had been in charge of the accommodation - calling everywhere a few days in advance, asking about accommodation, negotiating prices, making sure that everyone in our group was happy and I was a little apprehensive about this place we were staying at in Ella. It was the most expensive place on our trip, but from everything that I had read, this was a place where we should shell out some extra cash. So, I took a risk and booked it, asking everyone to pay a little bit above their budget but telling them it was going to be worth it. It was.

The place we were staying at was breathtakingly gorgeous. We stepped out onto the terrace overlooking an endless canyon of lush green with towering mountains on either side. It was perfect and exactly what we all wanted for our sore legs and feet after our hike.

View from our balcony in Ella

The day progressed and we concluded it down in the town with a Sri Lankan curry and a few beers. The sun disappeared quickly and so did our energy. Duwane, Sylvia and I were headed home but Kirk, not ready to give up his drinking session, opted to stay at the bar and make up for lost time. We left him to his devices, paid our bill, and set off for our hotel. It wasn't two semi-strided steps before all three of us, in near unison, said that there was no chance in hell that Kirk was making it back to our place by himself. It would be a difficult task for him stone cold sober, in the middle of the day, with clear visibility, but as it was, he would be stumbling drunk, in pitch blackness, after a dense fog had rolled in.


We made it back to our place, but couldn't tear ourselves away from the balcony. We sat there, watching the fog roll in and roll out, ethereally, changing minute by minute as if controlled by some sort of massive flume, manipulating the night sky, obscuring one thing and showing another at its will. We sat there for hours talking about this and that until at one point, we glanced at our watch, realized the time and then realized that our jokes from hours before were now something we had to deal with. Kirk was still not back.

We figured that if he got into any trouble he would likely ring either myself or Sylvia on our Sri Lankan SIM cards that we had until we realized that:

A: Sylvia's phone lie at the bottom of her purse, battery fully dead and turned off, and B: Kirk never took down my number.

Just as I had started to put my shoes on to retrace my steps to the bar in hopes of finding a frightened Kirk walking aimlessly in the woods (we had to walk through the woods to get to the town), Kirk was stumbling up the trail to the hotel, following a nice Sri Lankan man whose help he had enlisted in this arduous task of getting back to where he would need to pass out.

Kirk was not holding this guys hand "per se", but you could tell that he needed to be hand-held, a babe in the (literal) woods who could not offer this motorcycle taxi driver enough information for him to help him adequately in this seemingly easy task.

We later learned the story of what transpired once Kirk left the bar, made an immediate mistake in orienteering himself back to the hotel and then approached someone for help:

Kirk: Hello, I can't seem to find my hotel. Do you know where I am staying?

Motorbike Driver: Huh? No. Well, what is the name of it? I will take you there.

Kirk: A name? Why, yes, it does in fact have a name. I suppose that would have been something very useful to have jotted down before setting out alone on a piss up this foggy, disorientingly dark evening. I would even like to say that the name, in fact, escapes me, but I do believe that I never bothered to learn it in the first place.

Motorbike Driver: Hmm, are you staying alone?

Kirk: No, I am not. Ah, yes of course! My friends! I'll call my friends! I'll call Sylvia! Shit! It's turned off...I know! Nick! I'll call Nick! Let me look here through my contacts in my phone...N...N is for....Nick...Nick...hmmm...I don't seem to have taken down these valuable details either. Oh man, I am really blowing this aren't I?

Motorbike Driver: Yes, you are. Well, can you say anything useful?

Kirk: Um...we have a view?

Motorbike Driver: A view of...?

Kirk: Oh of course, silly me...a green mountain.

Motorbike Driver: (audible sigh) Get on.

A half hour later, Kirk was being led all the way down the trail to the doorstop of his hotel room. We had heard Kirk's voice off in the distance about 30 paces ago saying:

"I can take it from here, seriously. You don't need to lead me any further. I got it now, thanks a lot. I remember where I am. I appreciate your help but I have now become self-reliant."

But apparently, Kirk’s behavior and demeanor up until that point had proven to the contrary and any slurry protestations he might have been sputtering were met with disbelief and discard. It was not until the man was standing in front of Kirk's hotel room that he was willing to leave him be.

As Kirk and his new friend approached the hotel, the three of us took in the situation, watching our hours ago prophecy be fulfilled. We vowed in our inebriated state that Kirk's antics, although embarrassing, would not go forgotten and we would make sure to bring them up at every subsequent avenue. And we did. And now I writing about it.

We left Ella and the hill country, ending the first phase of our trip and starting the second: beach and booze. We got a ride all the way from Ella down to the coast where we would be staying at Tangalle. Again, stressing over where we would be staying, we elected to err on the side of swanky and booked ourselves into a nice place right on the beach.

Restaurant on the beach in Tangalle

Now accustomed to the humidity, the southern beaches of Sri Lanka were a welcome reprieve to our ruin walking, hill-climbing bodies. We had grand aspirations of sitting on beaches, drinking beers, reading books and throwing the frisbee.

The beaches of Tangalle rivaled those of Thailand. Beautiful sands, crisp blue and green waters, and groves of trees providing shade from the hot afternoon sun. The beaches we went to were unlike any I had ever been to before. As you waded into the water, the sand quickly disappeared underfoot as the tide ripped your feet out from under you. When you wanted to exit the water, it was tricky business. You had to make sure you were wading with your feet under you as the wave catapulted you from the sea onto the beach, as if the wave was a giant throwing hand and you were in its palm. This skill was far from innate to me. The first time I tried to exit the water in a doggy paddle position, I was picked up by the wave and quickly and firmly deposited on my face in the sand. As I tried to stand up and pick the sand out of my ass crack, the strong tide swept me back out to sea and re-catapulted me once again onto my face, like a soggy rag doll in some sort of painful washing cycle. Instead of rinse, wash and spin it was rip, wave, and pummel Nick-on-his-face-in-front-of-everyone. Eventually I got the hang of it, planted my feet below me and let the wave throw me on to the beach where I landed on my feet to the sounds of Duwane, Sylvia and Kirk laughing hysterically at me and my pasty, sand-welted body.

I spent the days reading, swimming and working on my sunburn. Nights were spent exploring different restaurants in the area and drinking beers to the sound of crashing waves. My favorite meal of the trip was at a restaurant right on the water. The menu consisted of fresh, made-to-order seafood that changed day to day depending on what the fishermen were able to catch. The place had no electricity so as not to take away from the ambiance of the starry nights, the crackle of the sand rolling up the beach with the tide, and the reflection of the rising moon on the still water.

Before the week was over, I was even able to treat myself to my new found hobby: scuba diving. The water was beautiful, clear, and I was even saw an octopus! Scuba diving is almost like a drug. The rush you get from being down there is nothing I can even begin to describe. All I can say is that if you are thinking about getting your certification, do it!

I wish I could tell you the flight home was as uneventful as the flight to Sri Lanka. The planes were late at every terminal, I was uncomfortably sunburned while sitting in my seat, and everyone around us was speaking Russian and Arabic in elevated voices. The rink-a-dink, nickel and dime airline wouldn't take my Turkish Lira so I couldn't even buy a water and for some reason, the air-conditioning was not working.

As the night progressed, people started to drift off to sleep and Kirk took the opportunity to find a free row of seats to lie down on. I spread my legs out, trying to get as comfortable as possible right when someone from the back of the plane joined the girl sitting in front of me, presumably to chat her up. I laid there for some time, listening to the probably stupid conversation these people were having in front of me in Arabic until I had to get up and move myself. Irritated, tired, and parched, I went to the back of the plane in search of a free row. Nothing. I walked back up the rows again, past my original row, and headed to the front. Perfect, the first 5 rows were unoccupied. I began to lay down and tried to get comfortable when I received a tap on the shoulder.

"Excuse me sir, you are going to need to go back to your seat. These seats are reserved," the miserly, haggard-looking woman who had previously denied me a small, plastic cup of water because I didn't have 3 euros said.

"Reserved?!? Reserved for who?". I asked, as I sarcastically and over-dramatically craned my head left and right looking for the potential reservee, "We are an hour into the flight, will someone be joining us for the second half?" (I am sure kept the indignation out of my voice not even a little bit.)

"No sir, but anyone wanting to sit in the first 5 rows of the aircraft must pay an additional fee of 20 US dollars," she said, matter-of-factually.

"Oh really? And I suppose it's your charming demeanor that has so many people pushing others out of the way to sit up here which would be closer to you then right?", I opined. There was not a single person in the first 5 rows.

Miserly skelator started reiterating the exact same robotic script about paying an additional fee if I wanted to sit up here when I cut her off mid sentence.

"Oh, you know what? Just shut UP. Just SHUT up! I'll go back to my seat.”

I went back to my seat emboldened enough by my boiled-over ire to address the suitor in the seat in front of me who was still yapping away in Arabic.

"Excuse me, sir? Is this your seat?", I asked sternly.

"What?", he said, glancing from me to the woman then back to me.

"Your seat? Your seat? The number on your ticket. Is this it?", I asked, pointing to the seat he was currently occupying.

"Uh, no, no it's not," he said. Now I was noticing that the girl was looking at me in a very thankful way. She was as done talking to this guy as much as I wanted him to be done talking.

"Would you mind going back to your seat? Everyone around you is trying to sleep," I said, pointing to everyone around me who was now looking at this man, willing him with their eyes to listen to my request.

"Well, maybe it is time for me to go to sleep I suppose."

Glad there was no air marshal on this flight to take me down. I have lived to fly another day, just not on Arabic Airlines.

Books Read:

Divergent - Veronica Roth

The Accursed Kings: The Royal Succession (Book 4) - Maurice Druon 

The Golem and the Jinni - Helene Wecker

Trincomalee in the morning

Frescoes of Sigiriya Rock

Kirk, Sylvia, and Duwane atop Sigiriya Rock

Seafood restaurant by candle light

Sigiriya Rock

Beaches of Tangalle

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