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Thursday, July 8, 2021
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While Justice Sleeps by Stacey Abrams
Doubleday, 384 pages, $28
Avery Keene has the coveted position of clerk to a Supreme Court Justice. That justice, Howard Wynn, travels to his own drummer, has a high standard for himself and others, and is brilliant. Avery is proud to have such a mentor. Then one day she receives the news that Wynn has fallen into a coma and that she, Avery Keene, just out of law school and with an addict for a mother, has been appointed his legal guardian. What about his ex-wife? His son? No, it is Avery who holds his life in her hands.
Abrams has another storyline running through and it’s not obvious what it has to do with Justice Wynn or Avery, except it might be Wynn’s vote on a case before the court that determines whether a corporate merger between an American biogenetics company and an Indian biotech company will be allowed. The case is in limbo because Wynn is comatose.
Abrams has plotted a convoluted thriller. People are dying. There are several attempts on Avery’s life. The big question is why she has become a target. There is pressure on her to resign Wynn from the court, there is pressure for her to disconnect Wynn’s medical devices, there is pressure for her to take care of her wayward mother. And to repeat: Why does someone want to kill her?
Avery has an odd group of people she thinks she can trust: her roommate, a doctor; Judge Wynn’s estranged son; Wynn’s lawyer; and maybe an FBI agent. It’s crazy-making!
As it is with most thrillers, this plot relies on a premise that stretches the imagination. The politics of the book doesn’t resemble (too much) what is currently happening. It's definitely make-believe.
I wish I could say this was a great book, because I admire Stacey Abrams to infinity and beyond. However, it was an unremarkable, albeit competently written, book. There were flashes of interesting character development and tension, but nothing was sustained.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Not Playing at Being a Tourist
I felt I had been tossed out of the family home where I was the spoiled child and told to find my own way in the world. Oh, cruise ship, you are so cruel!
Sunday was a day of transition. From Athens to Istanbul by plane is an hour trip. But with getting to the airport, waiting around, and airline delays, it took us six and a half hours to get to our hotel.
Our Istanbul cabbie was a nice guy who tried really hard to find our hotel, but he kept having to call people for help. It involved a lot of hand waving and looking all around. Finally, he called someone at the hotel who could figure out where he was. And where he was was across a wide tram-only boulevard, one block away, behind a barricade. The hotel guy found us and single-handedly personhandled our luggage (and believe me, I don't pack light) across the street and up the drive into the hotel. Cheers, personhandler!
The receptionist/concierge (it's a small hotel) laughed when I said "thank you" in Turkish. He taught me the right way to say it, which involves the mnemonic of picturing John Tesh (remember him?) sitting on a hay bale, drinking lemon juice to cure a sore throat, and whipping himself. Tesh-hay-cure(but with your lips pursed)-lash. I gift you this mnemonic if you are ever in Turkey. You're welcome.
The Turkish couple we met on board the ship said we had to eat kebab and visit the Aya Sofia, Basilica Cistern, Topkapi Palace, Grand Bazaar, and the Blue Mosque. It's always good to have a checklist.
First checkmark was eating fabulous kebab at a restaurant last night. The server cooked one of our dishes in a clay pot cooked on a plate of burning sands at the table. Then he cracked open the pot in the best showman's fashion to reveal the food inside. I like magic acts you can eat.
The muezzin called the faithful (and us) at daybreak today.
We hired a guide, "Tim," shortened from Timoshe (phonetical spelling) for a couple of hours to take us through the Grand Bazaar. As we were walking there, Tim was stopped by two shady characters. He reached inside his coat and I immediately thought it was a shakedown. (Yes, I have read too many crime novels.) It turns out they were undercover police protecting the poor tourists (in this case Tom and me) from bogus guides. Official, accredited guides have a badge. Tim apologized to them and clipped his badge on. It's good what the police do, he said. And he may have meant it.
We discussed how the Grand Bazaar is like the International Marketplace in Hawaii -- for tourists. It took a scant twenty minutes -- or less -- in the bazaar for me to want to leave. Fortunately, Tim grokked right away that it wasn't our cup of tea. Instead, he showed us monuments and ancient artifacts, gave us some history lessons, pointed out good places to eat (including one hole-in-the-wall), and took us to see rug making and exquisite examples of ceramics. It was nice to have a smart guide.
On our own we visited the Topkapi Palace, another checklist item. Life as a cook was tough back then. Sometimes there were 15,000 mouths to feed when the janissaries came to visit. I can barely figure out what to feed Tom and myself.
We saw a bunch of dogs lying lazily around on the sidewalks and under an archway. Fierce palace guard dogs, no doubt.
Checked Topkapi off our list and headed for the Basilica Cistern. If you think we were really gung-ho tourists, all of these places are just a few meters away from each other and from our hotel. This was our 'hood!
All the cistern needed was a) more water and b) the soundtrack from "Phantom of the Opera." The cistern is no longer used to hold water and actually the city purposely drains it periodically, but enough water is kept for the tourists. There are even fish swimming around in the dark waters. If you saw the movie or musical, the phantom ferries his beloved in the Paris cisterns. The object of his affection did not feel the , and it was probably because cisterns are dark, damp, and vaguely redolent of rat essence. Unless it is the Basilica Cistern. Dramatically placed lighting, solid walkways, and a little café at the end of the walk ensure that this cistern is a romantic, rodent-free experience.
Check.
Our tourist work is done for the day. More kebabs tonight if we're lucky.
Sunday was a day of transition. From Athens to Istanbul by plane is an hour trip. But with getting to the airport, waiting around, and airline delays, it took us six and a half hours to get to our hotel.
Our Istanbul cabbie was a nice guy who tried really hard to find our hotel, but he kept having to call people for help. It involved a lot of hand waving and looking all around. Finally, he called someone at the hotel who could figure out where he was. And where he was was across a wide tram-only boulevard, one block away, behind a barricade. The hotel guy found us and single-handedly personhandled our luggage (and believe me, I don't pack light) across the street and up the drive into the hotel. Cheers, personhandler!
The receptionist/concierge (it's a small hotel) laughed when I said "thank you" in Turkish. He taught me the right way to say it, which involves the mnemonic of picturing John Tesh (remember him?) sitting on a hay bale, drinking lemon juice to cure a sore throat, and whipping himself. Tesh-hay-cure(but with your lips pursed)-lash. I gift you this mnemonic if you are ever in Turkey. You're welcome.
The Turkish couple we met on board the ship said we had to eat kebab and visit the Aya Sofia, Basilica Cistern, Topkapi Palace, Grand Bazaar, and the Blue Mosque. It's always good to have a checklist.
First checkmark was eating fabulous kebab at a restaurant last night. The server cooked one of our dishes in a clay pot cooked on a plate of burning sands at the table. Then he cracked open the pot in the best showman's fashion to reveal the food inside. I like magic acts you can eat.
The muezzin called the faithful (and us) at daybreak today.
We hired a guide, "Tim," shortened from Timoshe (phonetical spelling) for a couple of hours to take us through the Grand Bazaar. As we were walking there, Tim was stopped by two shady characters. He reached inside his coat and I immediately thought it was a shakedown. (Yes, I have read too many crime novels.) It turns out they were undercover police protecting the poor tourists (in this case Tom and me) from bogus guides. Official, accredited guides have a badge. Tim apologized to them and clipped his badge on. It's good what the police do, he said. And he may have meant it.
We discussed how the Grand Bazaar is like the International Marketplace in Hawaii -- for tourists. It took a scant twenty minutes -- or less -- in the bazaar for me to want to leave. Fortunately, Tim grokked right away that it wasn't our cup of tea. Instead, he showed us monuments and ancient artifacts, gave us some history lessons, pointed out good places to eat (including one hole-in-the-wall), and took us to see rug making and exquisite examples of ceramics. It was nice to have a smart guide.
On our own we visited the Topkapi Palace, another checklist item. Life as a cook was tough back then. Sometimes there were 15,000 mouths to feed when the janissaries came to visit. I can barely figure out what to feed Tom and myself.
We saw a bunch of dogs lying lazily around on the sidewalks and under an archway. Fierce palace guard dogs, no doubt.
Checked Topkapi off our list and headed for the Basilica Cistern. If you think we were really gung-ho tourists, all of these places are just a few meters away from each other and from our hotel. This was our 'hood!
All the cistern needed was a) more water and b) the soundtrack from "Phantom of the Opera." The cistern is no longer used to hold water and actually the city purposely drains it periodically, but enough water is kept for the tourists. There are even fish swimming around in the dark waters. If you saw the movie or musical, the phantom ferries his beloved in the Paris cisterns. The object of his affection did not feel the , and it was probably because cisterns are dark, damp, and vaguely redolent of rat essence. Unless it is the Basilica Cistern. Dramatically placed lighting, solid walkways, and a little café at the end of the walk ensure that this cistern is a romantic, rodent-free experience.
Check.
Our tourist work is done for the day. More kebabs tonight if we're lucky.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Návplion Set to "The Flight of the Bumblebee"
It was a cloudless, 70 degree day in paradise, this time in Návplion, home of kings and tragic myth.
So who is buried in Agamemnon's tomb? Maybe the same person who is buried in Grant's tomb. After having studied the Odyssey, the Iliad, Aristotle, and various Greek tragedies (thank you, Reed), to see the land of those larger-than-life stories is quite exciting. At the age of twenty or so, I never thought I would be making THAT statement. Yet here I am, giddy at the thought that that rubble pile might be the bath in which Clytemnestra offed her hubby.
As for Agamemnon's tomb, according to those who know, the tomb we saw predates Agamemnon's time by a hundred years, so it has the PC name of "The Treasures of Atreus'." Nobody's reputation gets hurt that way, I guess. After all, why wouldn't the son be buried with the father? If it is indeed ATREUS' tomb, hmmm?
It was generally a lazy day on board ship in the morning. We had been getting up at 7 am the previous days to go on excursions. (What sadist did that timetable?) Yesterday's (I'm writing this Saturday morning) excursion didn't start until 1:30. Oh, joy, callou, callay! We missed the main dining room's hours, but food never sleeps aboard a cruise ship, so some place else served us a sumptuous buffet. As a secret taste tester hired by the ship, I had to try a little of everything. Of course. Can't let the shipping line down. (In your dreams, right?)
A little laundry, a little Internet, and then it was mustering time for the excursion before we knew it.
I hadn't realized how ambitious the excursion's offering was until we were whisked off on the bus, marched up a hill to look at the remains of a Mycenean palace, hustled into Atreus' treasury, whisked off again by bus, led like sheep up the steep path to the Palamidi Fortress (18th century, not so old) hulking over Návplion itself, and then stuffed like geese with fancy hours d'oeuvres at a reception given by the President of the cruise line who happened to be traveling on our ship. Then, because we have the President of the cruise line on our ship, we were treated to a dramatic performance by an Athenian actors' group. It was a combination of the stories of Iphigenia, Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, Orestes, and Elektra, all in the space of 30 minutes. Cliff notes for tourists.
Everything except the dramatic performance seemed rushed. I was still awed by the silent, ancient stones and the beehive tomb that housed somebody's bones and somebody's treasures.
The sun set on the quiet sea, the distant shore lights twinkled on, the stars came out, and ... Zzzzz.
So who is buried in Agamemnon's tomb? Maybe the same person who is buried in Grant's tomb. After having studied the Odyssey, the Iliad, Aristotle, and various Greek tragedies (thank you, Reed), to see the land of those larger-than-life stories is quite exciting. At the age of twenty or so, I never thought I would be making THAT statement. Yet here I am, giddy at the thought that that rubble pile might be the bath in which Clytemnestra offed her hubby.
As for Agamemnon's tomb, according to those who know, the tomb we saw predates Agamemnon's time by a hundred years, so it has the PC name of "The Treasures of Atreus'." Nobody's reputation gets hurt that way, I guess. After all, why wouldn't the son be buried with the father? If it is indeed ATREUS' tomb, hmmm?
It was generally a lazy day on board ship in the morning. We had been getting up at 7 am the previous days to go on excursions. (What sadist did that timetable?) Yesterday's (I'm writing this Saturday morning) excursion didn't start until 1:30. Oh, joy, callou, callay! We missed the main dining room's hours, but food never sleeps aboard a cruise ship, so some place else served us a sumptuous buffet. As a secret taste tester hired by the ship, I had to try a little of everything. Of course. Can't let the shipping line down. (In your dreams, right?)
A little laundry, a little Internet, and then it was mustering time for the excursion before we knew it.
I hadn't realized how ambitious the excursion's offering was until we were whisked off on the bus, marched up a hill to look at the remains of a Mycenean palace, hustled into Atreus' treasury, whisked off again by bus, led like sheep up the steep path to the Palamidi Fortress (18th century, not so old) hulking over Návplion itself, and then stuffed like geese with fancy hours d'oeuvres at a reception given by the President of the cruise line who happened to be traveling on our ship. Then, because we have the President of the cruise line on our ship, we were treated to a dramatic performance by an Athenian actors' group. It was a combination of the stories of Iphigenia, Clytemnestra, Agamemnon, Orestes, and Elektra, all in the space of 30 minutes. Cliff notes for tourists.
Everything except the dramatic performance seemed rushed. I was still awed by the silent, ancient stones and the beehive tomb that housed somebody's bones and somebody's treasures.
The sun set on the quiet sea, the distant shore lights twinkled on, the stars came out, and ... Zzzzz.
Is this another toilet? They say it's a shaft tomb. I don't know. It looks like a toilet to me.
The entrance to Atreus' treasury. Worker bees would have to fill the entire entry way with dirt each time something/one was buried. I bet the workers were pretty fed up and we're happy when the royal line expired totally.
Clytemnestra gives lumberjacking a go.
A red carpet welcome with drums and bells to the President's reception. Aren't I special?
The Palamidi Fortress above Návplion
Thursday, April 28, 2016
By Zeus!
It was 70 degrees and sunny today on the island of Crete, birthplace of Zeus. He was born in a cave. Maybe that's why he throws lightning bolts around; he expected better accommodations. I'll never know.
So much of Greece is unbelievably old and mythic that it's easy to believe in minotaurs, centaurs, and generations of mighty warriors who defended mountain passes against invaders.
This is a short report because we pretty much only did one thing: We hiked a gorge. It was created by an earthquake eons ago. Part of the gorge narrows to the width of two people who haven't been eating cruise food for a week. The Gorge of Imbrose commemorates the first line of defense against invaders coming over the mountain. Warriors and their families lived near the pass and fought fiercely. We fought fiercely against the thick, prickly gorse, loose rocks that wanted to eat our ankles, and low-growing trees that wanted to thwack us in our noggins. On the other hand, we were serenaded by Cretan nightingales almost the whole way down the mountain.
The guide was amusing. She said that on other islands, people had only to climb to the highest point and look around at the sea surrounding them to realize they lived on an island. Because Crete is pretty big and the mountains are pretty high, nobody realized they were on an island. Homer apparently took Crete's assertion at face value and wrote about the continent of Crete.
This is the report of someone who, like the blind men trying to describe an elephant, only saw one thing:
The continent of Crete smells like sage. It is dry and a little windy. It has a strange plant that I think the guide called a dragon blood plant. It is carnivorous and thus smells really, really bad. There is a tea brewed from a plant that grows in the cracks of the gorge's cliffs. It tastes like sage. Greeks put honey on everything. They are smart people.
I'm going to take a bottle of Advil now.
So much of Greece is unbelievably old and mythic that it's easy to believe in minotaurs, centaurs, and generations of mighty warriors who defended mountain passes against invaders.
This is a short report because we pretty much only did one thing: We hiked a gorge. It was created by an earthquake eons ago. Part of the gorge narrows to the width of two people who haven't been eating cruise food for a week. The Gorge of Imbrose commemorates the first line of defense against invaders coming over the mountain. Warriors and their families lived near the pass and fought fiercely. We fought fiercely against the thick, prickly gorse, loose rocks that wanted to eat our ankles, and low-growing trees that wanted to thwack us in our noggins. On the other hand, we were serenaded by Cretan nightingales almost the whole way down the mountain.
The guide was amusing. She said that on other islands, people had only to climb to the highest point and look around at the sea surrounding them to realize they lived on an island. Because Crete is pretty big and the mountains are pretty high, nobody realized they were on an island. Homer apparently took Crete's assertion at face value and wrote about the continent of Crete.
This is the report of someone who, like the blind men trying to describe an elephant, only saw one thing:
The continent of Crete smells like sage. It is dry and a little windy. It has a strange plant that I think the guide called a dragon blood plant. It is carnivorous and thus smells really, really bad. There is a tea brewed from a plant that grows in the cracks of the gorge's cliffs. It tastes like sage. Greeks put honey on everything. They are smart people.
I'm going to take a bottle of Advil now.
Caught between a rock and a hard place.
The awesomely awful dragon's blood plant.
A narrow passage
Another narrow place!
Our passage marked in red
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Steps and Stones
It was a beautiful, 70-degree day in paradise. A little windy, but we didn't have to worry about gymnastics on a tender because the ship was tidily docked.
I naively thought that I would be able to sleep late on my vacation. However, I got overly enthusiastic about the excursions, and signed us up for one every day. We have to be at the departure room at 8:15 every morning. I had no idea when I signed up that the excursion people were crazy. I have become a zombie sheep in a tour group. (To be fair, we have seen some extraordinary sights in a short amount of time, and the guides have been interesting. And I've learned to power nap in the afternoon.)
The first excursion we signed up for was labeled "strenuous." It wasn't. The second excursion was labeled "moderate," and it was more strenuous. Today's excursion in Rhodes was labeled "strenuous," and it was. Finally, truth in labeling! We climbed many ancient and worn steps to reach the Acropolis of Lindos. Then down the steps again through the winding and narrow streets (sometimes fighting donkeys for the right of way). Then up a bunch of steps to view the Palace of the Grand Masters in the Old Town of Rhodes. Both were worth it.
There were a couple of kids in our group and they raced up the Palace's steps. I hate them. (Actually, they are pretty great kids. At one point, our teacher -- er, guide -- asked us to name the gods/goddesses depicted in a floor mosaic. The adults said, "Um, er, hmmm." The kids said, "Athena, Poseidon, Nike, and Helios," without hesitation.)
At lunch some of the people next to me clinked their wine glasses together and said, "Kampei." Hey, I thought, I resemble that remark, so I horned in and Kampei-ed with them. Nothing breaks down the conversation barriers with fellow Asians than a good Kampei. One of them sounded strange, so I grilled him. "Where are you from?" I demanded. Virginia, he said. No, I said, you're not. Well, he allowed, I grew up in Texas. There was some cognitive dissonance as I listened to someone who looked like he could be my Hawaii cousin talking with a Texas drawl. It was fun.
The bonus at lunch is we sat across a husband and wife from Istanbul. What? No way! The whole reason Tom and I are on this trip is that it was supposed to terminate in Istanbul, with a couple of other Turkish stops. Because of recent terrorist acts in Turkey, the cruise company cancelled the Turkish ports. Tom and I had to make separate arrangements to fly to Istanbul. I've always wanted to go to Istanbul and getting to see Greece was supposed to be the bonus.
Farouk and Ayse were the perfect lunch companions. They spoke impeccable English, both having spent considerable time in the US. Their three children all attended schools in North America. Ayse taught me how to say hello and how to make a toast. When I asked her how to say thank you, she burbled something at me. I tried to parrot it back. She rolled her eyes and kindly said, "Just say 'merci,' that works just as well." Well, merci for that! They insisted on giving us their contact information. The world is really a kind place. And that's today's lesson.
I naively thought that I would be able to sleep late on my vacation. However, I got overly enthusiastic about the excursions, and signed us up for one every day. We have to be at the departure room at 8:15 every morning. I had no idea when I signed up that the excursion people were crazy. I have become a zombie sheep in a tour group. (To be fair, we have seen some extraordinary sights in a short amount of time, and the guides have been interesting. And I've learned to power nap in the afternoon.)
The first excursion we signed up for was labeled "strenuous." It wasn't. The second excursion was labeled "moderate," and it was more strenuous. Today's excursion in Rhodes was labeled "strenuous," and it was. Finally, truth in labeling! We climbed many ancient and worn steps to reach the Acropolis of Lindos. Then down the steps again through the winding and narrow streets (sometimes fighting donkeys for the right of way). Then up a bunch of steps to view the Palace of the Grand Masters in the Old Town of Rhodes. Both were worth it.
There were a couple of kids in our group and they raced up the Palace's steps. I hate them. (Actually, they are pretty great kids. At one point, our teacher -- er, guide -- asked us to name the gods/goddesses depicted in a floor mosaic. The adults said, "Um, er, hmmm." The kids said, "Athena, Poseidon, Nike, and Helios," without hesitation.)
At lunch some of the people next to me clinked their wine glasses together and said, "Kampei." Hey, I thought, I resemble that remark, so I horned in and Kampei-ed with them. Nothing breaks down the conversation barriers with fellow Asians than a good Kampei. One of them sounded strange, so I grilled him. "Where are you from?" I demanded. Virginia, he said. No, I said, you're not. Well, he allowed, I grew up in Texas. There was some cognitive dissonance as I listened to someone who looked like he could be my Hawaii cousin talking with a Texas drawl. It was fun.
The bonus at lunch is we sat across a husband and wife from Istanbul. What? No way! The whole reason Tom and I are on this trip is that it was supposed to terminate in Istanbul, with a couple of other Turkish stops. Because of recent terrorist acts in Turkey, the cruise company cancelled the Turkish ports. Tom and I had to make separate arrangements to fly to Istanbul. I've always wanted to go to Istanbul and getting to see Greece was supposed to be the bonus.
Farouk and Ayse were the perfect lunch companions. They spoke impeccable English, both having spent considerable time in the US. Their three children all attended schools in North America. Ayse taught me how to say hello and how to make a toast. When I asked her how to say thank you, she burbled something at me. I tried to parrot it back. She rolled her eyes and kindly said, "Just say 'merci,' that works just as well." Well, merci for that! They insisted on giving us their contact information. The world is really a kind place. And that's today's lesson.
The Acropolis is a pile of stones.
Coughing up an ancient hairball.
When they built this street about 800 years ago, they must have known how wide cars would be.
Steps
And more steps
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Santorini or Bust or How to Have a Happy Birthday
Another 70-degree, sunny day. It would have been perfect except it was too windy. I vaguely got seasick last night as the ship rocked and rolled along to Santorini. Before I tell you why the wind matters (besides getting me seasick), let me tell you about Santorini.
The capital of Santorini, the village of Fera, is 1,000 feet above its tiny harbor. The harbor is so tiny that the ship cannot dock there. Tenders must transport us to the dock, and four crew must help us navigate the bouncing and treacherous step from the boat to the dock. If the waves are too brisk, good luck to you!
Once you have conquered the dock, you must get up to Fera by tram or donkey. If the winds are high, guess what doesn't run. And, for some reason, the ship didn't recommend the donkeys. People can walk the same trail as the donkeys, but the problem is not only that it's a steep 1000-foot climb, but that the donkeys have carefully placed "presents" upon the path. Tom and I are tough; after all, we've hiked several times in the UK through, it seems, thousands of sheep pastures. But we didn't have the choice. The tenders simply would not run people to shore in the high winds.
Stuck on board a rolling ship, we made use of the ship's facilities and did nothing.
Let me say now that today is Tom's birthday. He got a mention in the ship's daily newspaper and the dining room cobbled up a special breakfast for him (meaning us). He accused me of arranging all that. I wish I could be that devious! I told him that at least forty servers didn't circle us and sing him happy birthday while beating a drum and wearing spangles. When we went to dinner this evening in one of the two "special" restaurants on board (menu created by master sushi chef Nobu, not that I'm bragging), the servers circled us and brought out a cake with a candle. After Tom blew it out, everybody clapped and wished him a happy birthday. At least there were no spangles or drums. Tom took it well.
I talked to the front desk about what chance our excursion had of being called off. A clerk said that if the weather hadn't calmed by noon, it probably wouldn't happen. At 11:00, I saw the one remaining tender head to Fera's harbor. Ooo, ooo, ooo, I thought, maybe they're checking to see if they can dock. At 11:30, we were cleared to go ashore and the tram was turned on.
Yay!
Now the funny thing is we didn't even land at Fera's dock. We were spirited away to another village dock. We still needed four crew members to get each of us over to the other side. A bus took us to Akrotiri, a 3600-year-old city buried by volcanic ash, à la Pompeii. Actually, about three percent of it is now unburied and sheltered in a neat building.
Later we dodged tourist shops to gawk at blue-domed churches and whitewashed walls. One shopkeeper asked us why we were so late. They really have the cruising timetable down!
We wound up in Fera and took the tram down. Six of us were scrunched in one of the tram bubbles. Tom looked over to the donkey path next to the tram lines and saw the donkeys being taken down to the bottom. He got excited and said it was too bad we couldn't take the donkeys. "I took the donkey up," a young woman said shyly and grinned. Which goes to show that you can't always rely on the ship's advice.
The capital of Santorini, the village of Fera, is 1,000 feet above its tiny harbor. The harbor is so tiny that the ship cannot dock there. Tenders must transport us to the dock, and four crew must help us navigate the bouncing and treacherous step from the boat to the dock. If the waves are too brisk, good luck to you!
Once you have conquered the dock, you must get up to Fera by tram or donkey. If the winds are high, guess what doesn't run. And, for some reason, the ship didn't recommend the donkeys. People can walk the same trail as the donkeys, but the problem is not only that it's a steep 1000-foot climb, but that the donkeys have carefully placed "presents" upon the path. Tom and I are tough; after all, we've hiked several times in the UK through, it seems, thousands of sheep pastures. But we didn't have the choice. The tenders simply would not run people to shore in the high winds.
Stuck on board a rolling ship, we made use of the ship's facilities and did nothing.
We reclined and
Watched windows being washed.
Let me say now that today is Tom's birthday. He got a mention in the ship's daily newspaper and the dining room cobbled up a special breakfast for him (meaning us). He accused me of arranging all that. I wish I could be that devious! I told him that at least forty servers didn't circle us and sing him happy birthday while beating a drum and wearing spangles. When we went to dinner this evening in one of the two "special" restaurants on board (menu created by master sushi chef Nobu, not that I'm bragging), the servers circled us and brought out a cake with a candle. After Tom blew it out, everybody clapped and wished him a happy birthday. At least there were no spangles or drums. Tom took it well.
I talked to the front desk about what chance our excursion had of being called off. A clerk said that if the weather hadn't calmed by noon, it probably wouldn't happen. At 11:00, I saw the one remaining tender head to Fera's harbor. Ooo, ooo, ooo, I thought, maybe they're checking to see if they can dock. At 11:30, we were cleared to go ashore and the tram was turned on.
Yay!
Now the funny thing is we didn't even land at Fera's dock. We were spirited away to another village dock. We still needed four crew members to get each of us over to the other side. A bus took us to Akrotiri, a 3600-year-old city buried by volcanic ash, à la Pompeii. Actually, about three percent of it is now unburied and sheltered in a neat building.
Guides always want to show us ancient toilets!
Later we dodged tourist shops to gawk at blue-domed churches and whitewashed walls. One shopkeeper asked us why we were so late. They really have the cruising timetable down!
In about the middle of the picture is a dome. If we had gotten a fancier excursion, the dome would have been blue. But our package only allowed for brown domes.
Two American boys, so the story goes, loved Santorini so much, they opened a bookstore. The eccentrically decorated AtlantisBookstore was a treat. Of course I bought a book. (Need you wonder?)
We wound up in Fera and took the tram down. Six of us were scrunched in one of the tram bubbles. Tom looked over to the donkey path next to the tram lines and saw the donkeys being taken down to the bottom. He got excited and said it was too bad we couldn't take the donkeys. "I took the donkey up," a young woman said shyly and grinned. Which goes to show that you can't always rely on the ship's advice.
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