Crete

After nine identical mornings, I still awoke trusting the deceitful soft light creeping in from behind our curtains. Turning on the television, a bow-mounted camera fed us our first glimpse of natural light every morning. Opening the blinds quickly dispelled thoughts of the sun, instead revealing the "Promenade", the main artery of the floating hotel, yet today the scene on screen revealed no difference.

We awoke late and ran off the ship hoping to salvage the two and a half hours. The clouds darkening the cool day threatened rain, but we didn't have time to change. A shuttle took us from port to downtown Chania.

As we pushed our way through filled sidewalks, the crowds thickened. In admitted ignorance of our location, we blindly stumbled upon the heart of Chania, the Venetian harbor. My eyes were instantly drawn to the light house standing across the harbor and the small sailboat passing by. Waves violently crashed onto the rocks around the lighthouse's base; those successfully passing the narrow entrance spilled water onto the terrace and our feet.

True to form, a soaked golden retriever emerged from the harbor and enthusiastically returned to its owner who sat with his things against the western wall of the mosque. As we approached, we watched as the dog refused a meal offered by a passerby; the food sitting untouched as the dog looked back for approval. I continued on, amused and curious by the repeated burst of water battering a short section of the harbor wall. Spray exploded overhead, soaking a lonely bench.

With only forty five minutes before we needed to find our way back to the shuttle, we raced around the harbor passing waterfront restaurants and the Maritime museum without thought.

Well traveled.

Reminded of spaghetti a la carbonara.

Carpeting.

As we climbed around the rocks to the opposite side of the wall, a different side of the Mediterranean became apparent. Wm. and I stood in silence watching the surf crashing just feet in front of us, the mist landing delicately on the front of my camera.

I realized as we left the lighthouse that every step brought us closer to home.

We rushed back the way we came, getting lost in the streets beyond the harbor. Not knowing street names, but aware of a series of wrong turns, we retraced our steps to the last confirmable point. We couldn't ask for directions. There were ten minutes until the shuttle left.

Wm. spotted a familiar awning down a different alley.

As usual, he only remembered turns I'd forgotten. We sprinted towards the indoor market, up the stairs, and through the dusty building to the final shuttle that sat idling outside.

Rhodes.

Ready for rest, we spent our morning somewhere in Faliraki, Rhodes.

Apparently we passed Europe's largest water park on the way there.

I didn't see it.

Behind a hotel, I watched a photographer take various families' pictures with a Hasselbad as we floated in the cool water.

Wm. and I set off towards the city upon our return. Asphalt yielded to stone as we walked.

Making use of what they have.

En route to Crete

Country, not bird.

My family spent two weeks in Turkey last summer while I finished a course on Ethics and went fishing and tubing on Beaver Lake in WI.

Consequently, only my father accompanied me to Ephesus, Mt. Koressos, and Selçuk.

Ruins produce ruined pipes.

Prayers on Mt. Koressos

Succulent.

Israel.

Questioning by Israeli officials occurred the day before we arrived in Haifa. I'm not sure how or when they got on board.

Our expectations of being barraged with questions by a stoic Israeli official vanished over laughs about Wm.'s metamorphosis from the round-faced child featured inside his nearly expired passport.

The Sea of Galilee, a half mile beyond our first stop, led an unconquerable effort against Wm. and I for the title of "Most Vapid" from within the heat and haze. Between pulls of water and family photographs for proof of attendance, I tried to haphazardly match my incomplete and foggy knowledge of biblical history, largely supplemented by a semester of religion class during sophomore year of high school, with the comprehensive lesson pouring through the headphones.

Radio transmitters are the new personal PA system for guided tours, apparently.

Tabgha.

The Jordan River.

Neither muskrat nor beaver.

Catfish.

Leaving Haifa.

A minute of light. 60s x f/22 x ISO 100 @18 (on DX)

I was excited for Jerusalem, but tired of the slow evenings on board. Now halfway through the trip, the anxiety of what waited stateside slowly began to flow. For the first time in months, I was in bed at 10:30.

9:14 am

As the bus drove from Ashdod into Jerusalem, memorized fantasies of a city my mother once called home filled my mind. Though peripatetic, my childhood seems stationary compared my mother's. My grandfather, a diplomat whom would later be an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary for Bahrain (coolest title ever), spent years in Jerusalem, Kuwait, and Jordan (among other places.) For years stories about Jerusalem and time spent on the Red Sea inspired images of packs of wild dogs running through the streets and four children playing in a junkyard among wrecked cars and live ammunition.

Heat and dust dull the blue walls, but the dome shines brilliantly under the high sun. From the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock sits as a beacon of grandeur. A golden buoy floating in a sea of limestone, a color with which I am too familiar.

From beneath the shadow of the Western Wall, the sounds of shutters and prayers mixed; a juxtaposition of the purely touristic, the devoutly religious, and the somewhere in between.

I kept my camera by my side.

Field trips chaperoned by assault rifles.

Thirty rounds. Thirty students. Five chaperones. One rifle. One faith.

On patrol.

Overlapping roofs and narrow streets kept us shaded as we walked the Via Dolorosa. Crowded displays and ambitious owners peddled a mix of hackneyed Middle Eastern wares like keffiyehs, fake pashminas, and hookahs, with more geographically (biblically) specific goods. In my search from Haifa to Jerusalem to Bethlehem, nothing bore resemblance to my mother's Jerusalem cross; something never to be worn, but always treasured.

In a place of such volatility, I pondered how much and little things have changed, and how much they will.

Away from Naples

Twelve days of awkward dinner company, free room service, guided "shore excursions", coerced relaxation, and (best of all) legitimate disconnection await onboard the "Mariner of the Seas." Any watch marked with "Get off the boat", "Dinner time", and "Meet everyone" would have been more useful than either my Easy Reader or Sub. Cruises are funny in that way. Days of the week become irrelevant, only to be replaced with concerns about whether or not one needs a tie for dinner that evening.

First port: Naples.

Leaving.

You don't need a numbered sticker designating your tour group to show you're a tourist while riding the ferry to Capri.

I woke up forty minutes after boarding. The hazy shadow in the distance now above us, our long shadows stood short at the foot of the mountainous isle.

There was a mixed party in the small harbor; yachts, fishing boats, and dinghies rocked gently alongside one another.

Our tour through the narrow streets of Capri took us past Kiton, Ferragamo, and Tod's. 

The beauty felt just beyond our reach.

Another nap, another ferry. Sorrento.

The streets of Sorrento.

Local treasure.

Not built in a day...

...but seen in one.

We stepped off the train into Termini. The station was still busy at 7:30.

I heard my name called. I saw my two roommates from my stay in Madrid. Canadians, I explained to Wm., are everywhere. Spaghetti alla carbonara was the first meal I had in Rome five years ago. Repeat.

A good meal after a long day made better by unexpected company.

The sun set as we ate.

My pack felt heavy by the time we checked into the hostel.

This wasn't Nice. The other residents weren't really, either.

An early morning intended, a mid morning start. Covering the city would take all day, but I thought it necessary for Wm. to see the main attractions if he was going to see anything.

The Vatican in black and white. Intricate without the opulence.

These stairs may look familiar to those who were required to take MATH-M119 back in 06-07.

Disarray behind perceived order.

Leaving and so did we.

The Coliseum

To the Pantheon.

Dreading the inevitable.

The day wasn't without mistakes, but with the sites seen, I had satisfied my duties as a tour guide. Nine hours later, we contacted the Two from Toronto and had one last night out; it was an interesting conclusion to an even more interesting trip.

I awoke on the floor of my hostel room the next morning confused only about my energy and clarity. I'm not a morning person, not after nights like that. My bed stood next to me, undisturbed and uncluttered.

It was time to meet the parents. Time for schedules, plans, and arranged meeting times. We took off towards Termini.