Yet one good thing came from the whole mess: before I signed onto this new ship in Greece, Bianca was going to be on vacation. I wanted to call her immediately, but she was at sea on Valor. Thus I wrote to her, ‘No more Hollywood rendezvous, woman! Meet me in Athens when you get off Valor. If you aren’t there, it’s over.’
I didn’t care about ships. I didn’t care about my career. I never wanted to go to sea. I never wanted to be an art auctioneer. Those were only means to an end, just a way to get Bianca in my life. In the beginning, finding a life together across the continents had seemed impossible. So many barriers blocked us! But together, haphazardly, we made a door. It was right there in front of us, ajar. But she just wouldn’t step through it.
‘Just like old times, my love!’ Bianca wrote back. ‘Romance abroad. We’ve made love on the Red Sea, the Black Sea, the Caribbean Sea, so why not the Aegean Sea?’
I tried to feel stern with her. Bianca was doing it again: pausing at the threshold, reliving our controlled snippets of perfection. I wanted to use my brain, to criticize her for not stepping through. Cobbled together bits and pieces of perfection were not enough of a foundation to build a life upon. But my body kept getting in the way. Despite my disappointments, my heart beat faster at the thought of holding her on another far-flung tryst. The feeling was heady, euphoric. I shared her desire to abandon everything for just one more visit to rapture.
But I wasn’t going to Athens for another honeymoon. I was going there for a new ship. And if she wasn’t going to be on it, then neither was I.
Chapter 21. The Oracle of Delphi
1
In Athens, Bianca greeted me with a big hug and a kiss. She couldn’t stop laughing with excitement and enthusiasm. Looking wonderful in tight jeans and a brown leather jacket, she seemed as natural and warm and happy as always—when on land, anyway.
Surely my disappointment in the Bahamas had just been a bad dream, a manifestation of my greatest fear. I refused to believe that this bouncing, radiant woman had played me for years. The entire transatlantic flight I had imagined how we would discuss what happened. I must have rehearsed speeches grand and small a hundred times. Yet when I saw those round cheeks flushed with genuine joy, all thoughts of heavy talk vanished. I felt like a dog that forgets everything the moment a squirrel happens by.
Bianca, of course, did not mention the Bahamas. She was almost giddy to share with me a surprise: she had booked us on a special, week-long tour of Greece. She promised an awesome week exciting our minds, our imaginations, and at night, our bodies. Our transportation was a huge, modern tour bus. The predominant language spoken was Romanian, indicating that Bianca had booked the trip from home.
The first day we drove north for what seemed an interminable time. Bianca kept our itinerary to herself, thinking the surprise would be welcome. After uncounted hours in the bus, I wasn’t so sure. We left the main highways and began snaking through very rural, but very beautiful hills. They extended into the distance, green and steep.
The distant plains rose up into a fan, which at its peak was pierced with a startling series of rocky pinnacles that thrust up from the earth like fat stone fingers clawing the sky. It was one of the most unusual rock formations I had ever seen.
Our bus ascended a most bizarre series of curves towards the strange stone upthrusts hundreds of feet high. Perched upon their pinnacles and hugging the cracks and crevices so very, very high up were ancient monasteries. From the plains so far below they just looked like tiny shacks, but were in fact massive stone complexes.
“These are the monasteries of Metéora, which is Greek for ‘suspended in the air’,” Bianca explained. “The old monks would wander up into the mucho caves to reflect. Over time they climbed all the way to the top of the pinnacles and made the monasteries. Some are still reachable by the rope and pulley system they created centuries ago. Imagine being pulled up in a big net like a fish. Really!”
After parking the bus, we ascended winding walks carved into the sandstone. Half walkway and half stairs, the path itself was miraculous and wonderful to behold. Precarious drops threatened at the edges every which way in a 3D labyrinth of ancient brick and air. We crossed a rope bridge over a chasm thirty-foot wide, its depth unknown. All this, and yet the monasteries were still hundreds of feet directly above us! We had yet to reach the stairs that curled upwards around the outside of the cliffs.
The ascent was a lung-bursting climb. Bianca paused halfway up for a cigarette.
“Perhaps now is not the best time for that,” I observed with a smile. “Remember, I saw your medical file for the transfer as my assistant—which you declined.”
“My lungs are fine,” Bianca quickly scoffed, taking a deep drag of her cigarette.
“I saw lots of delicate white streaks,” I teased.
“Those white things are cool,” Bianca stated matter-of-factly. “Come on, marathoner, let’s go.”
Finally we stood before the entrance to one of the monasteries. The brick walls were scrubbed clean to look brand new, and funneled the approach into an antechamber that sheltered a massive wooden door. But what really caught my eye was the view. The plains spread out below to infinity. It was awe-inspiring.
Before approaching the entrance, Bianca pulled me aside.
“Only Greeks and Romanians are allowed inside this one,” she whispered. “Our religions are brothers, but that’s not the reason. Apparently centuries ago a Romanian nobleman gave mucho money and troops to the Greeks, so they still honor us. So polish up your Romanian and don’t order lemon with your tea.”
I cleared my throat and readied my best Romanian accent. I felt like a spy. Brown… James Brown. In fact, I recognized these monasteries from the climax of the James Bond movie For Your Eyes Only. If the ascent nearly killed 007, I could forgive Bianca for having a rough go of it.
Inside the small antechamber were dozens of skirts hanging from pegs. An old Greek woman supervised as Bianca pulled one over her jeans. After Bianca gave her skirt a flourish, the old woman nodded. We entered.
“What’s up with the skirts?” I asked in a whisper.
“They’re still civilized, babaloo,” she replied. “Only women in skirts are allowed in.”
We passed through a corridor of stone, which opened into a courtyard surrounded by walls of both brick and sandstone. Flower pots were everywhere, lining the walks and hanging in rows across the walls, filling the area with radiant color. We turned a corner, and what did I see? Why, half a dozen Chinese girls shrieking in their native tongue, of course.
Bianca’s eyes widened in shock. I burst into laughter.
We spent the morning poring over books from hundreds of years ago, and parchment fragments from thousands. It was an amazing, humbling morning. But that is not what made it so special. The memory I will always cherish was after I bought Bianca a coffee and she started henpecking me. With a smile, she demanded I hold this, that, the other thing, now get me a cigarette, now take my picture, don’t let my coffee get cold, babaloo! I fired right back at her, and we laughed and squabbled back and forth. As much fun as that was, I think what made it so memorable was being caught bantering by two little old ladies from the bus. In Romanian they remarked, ‘young love.’
If only it were that simple!
But, true to Bianca’s word, things just got better.
We visited the tomb of Phillip II, the man who united all of Greece under one flag. This was what allowed his son to move onto even greater things—hence the name Alexander the Great.
We stopped on the plains of Marathon, where I simply had to get out and run a bit in honor of Pheidippides. The apocryphal story tells of how, after the battle where the Greeks defeated the Persian forces of Darius I, Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens with the news. Upon declaring ‘we have won’, he dropped dead from exhaustion.
We paid homage to Leonidas at Thermopylae, where his three hundred Spartans held off forces of literally hundreds of thousands of Persians, an e
vent that inspired the blood-spattered, testosterone wet dream movie 300.
But our touring the history of battle actually got bigger, if that was possible, for we next went to Mycenae. We drove through a hilly area forested with orange and lemon trees, with rockier areas sprouting copious groves of olives. Perched on a saddle between two small mountains was the ruined palace of the great Agamemnon, famed king in Homer’s masterpiece on the Trojan War, the Iliad.
I nearly had a heart attack when I looked up at the entrance and beheld the fabled Lion Gate, some 2,300 years old, which had been the focus of one of my college papers. I thought the battered stone was more beautiful even than Brad Pitt playing Achilles in Troy. Bianca did not agree.
I was really and truly getting my geek on as we passed more and more mind-blowing places. Epidaurus, Mt. Olympus, Sparta. Bianca nodded with approval at my joy, like a parent observing a child’s first visit to a carnival.
After a few days exploring the Peloponnesus, we crossed back over the Corinthian canal to visit Athens. We enjoyed a long, fascinating day exploring the Acropolis and its museums. That night we dined on a rooftop cafe, drinking Metaxa brandy and toasting the Acropolis, whose white marble glowed gloriously above us. The next morning we moved into the Aegean to see some islands. We ferried between Poros, Hydra, and Aegina, each far cooler than the last.
It was all so awesome. Yet it was also something else: a tactic. Bianca was using the past to distract me from the future. But the isle of Angistri changed everything.
2
Via an early morning ferry, we arrived at Angistri, where we planned to stay for a couple of days to relax. Our hotel was a charming little pad right on the beach with a couple dozen rooms and a couple dozen stray cats. During the day they lazed on the outdoor dining room chairs, as well-fed and well-groomed an any well-to-do tourist. A vine-covered trellis blocked the sun from above and the fluttering bougainvillea softened the breeze from the sea. Our room was small and simple, though the balcony was large and ornate. While not overlooking the sea, the balcony did offer an excellent view of a large Greek Orthodox church, complete with whitewashed walls and five blue domes.
After settling in, Bianca and I wandered to the beach to play. The sand was exceptionally rocky, but the waters were crystal and gorgeous and strangely invigorating. There was something magical about the Aegean Sea, as if Poseidon still slumbered within and released a bit of divinity into everyone taking a dip in his sacred waters. The Aegean sun, too, possessed the supernatural: no matter how long we basked in it, we didn’t get burnt.
After some sun and a light lunch, Bianca and I rented a motor scooter to explore the island on our own.
“I’ve never had a passenger on a scooter before,” I said honestly. I didn’t feel the need to share that I had never been a driver for one, either.
“No problem,” Bianca said, slipping in behind me. “My ex had a motorcycle in Belgium. We rode together all the time.”
“Great,” I said, revving the motor to hide my sarcasm. Being a scooter, of course, meant it was merely a high-pitched whine.
Because only one road led to the far side of the island, getting lost was out of the question. I almost ran off the road a few times, but convincingly blamed the undulating, hair-pin curves of the road. When it snaked through towns I almost hit the walls, which were always whitewashed and brilliant with flourishing bougainvillea. Outside the villages, we cruised through forests of low pines, the terrain quite dry with rugged hills and rocks. Eventually we cruised along the edge of majestic cliffs that dropped into sparkling waters. We sped along, smelled the pine, viewed the beauty, felt free and young and in love.
Indeed, the best part was feeling Bianca’s arms around me and her warmth at my back. She leaned into me with total confidence. It was truly the happiest single time in my entire life, that silly little ride across a Greek island.
Until I crashed.
Fortunately, Bianca had already gotten off the back. While she was scouting out an isolated beach, I decided to play off road for a bit. That lasted all of thirty feet. I hit the gas and went straight into a bush. The back brakes, I had already learned, were mostly nonfunctional, so I had to make do with the front brakes. I think in my shock I gunned the motor, too. The scooter dumped me into the bush and flipped over on top of me. It was not my finest moment. I was just glad that Bianca hadn’t seen the crash, or how lamely I kicked the scooter off me. I had all the grace of a turtle on its back.
Several minutes later I came puttering back to the beach, bleeding and battered and scraped, including my face. Upon sight of me, Bianca burst out laughing.
We relaxed on the nameless beach for a couple of hours. There was no sand, actually, but an unbroken ribbon of smoothly polished black stones too large to be called pebbles. The lapping of the translucent waters was so gentle, the breeze its brother, and us soaking up the sun made for a magnificent afternoon. We watched the sun set over the mountainous islands across the sea. The drive back, with a busted headlight and wobbling front rim, brought us back to reality.
Dinner was wonderful, with the vines and flowers lit by torches and tables lit by candles. As we dined on grilled lamb, cats brushed by our legs and purred for a bite. Bianca and I shared a table with the two elderly ladies from the tour bus we’d seen at the monestary.
“What happened to your face?” piped up one as she adjusted her shawl. She asked in English. With a New York accent. My jaw nearly hit the floor. She hastily explained, “My sister and I lived in Brooklyn for decades.”
“We got out before the Iron Curtain,” agreed Sister Two. “And returned after the fall of Ceaușescu.”
“Such a shame,” murmured the Sister One. Sister Two nodded.
“The Iron Curtain?” I asked, still trying to recover from my surprise.
“No, dear,” answered Sister One. “Your face. You used to be so pretty. What did you do?”
“Uh, I crashed on a scooter. To be honest, it does kind of hurt.”
“Of course it does, dear,” said Sister One. “We’ve got a cure for that though, haven’t we?”
“Yes we do,” agreed Sister Two, as she pulled open a large handbag. I suffered a sudden flashback of the peasant woman I sat beside on the plane, nearly three years ago. If this New York Romanian pulled out a large knife, I simply knew I would faint. Instead, she revealed something even more dangerous: a round bottle of țuica.
We four toasted each other. Two of us choked, and not the two I thought it would be. The drink was ghastly powerful and as close to pure alcohol as I’d ever come across. Though only drinking from tiny ceramic mugs that Sister Two also kept in her handbag, the four of us got drunk as apples.
Later that night I woke up in the dark. A cold breeze blew in through the balcony doors, so I pulled the covers closer. I thought I felt something heavy on top of the sheets, but it didn’t register through the sleepy, țuica induced haze. The second time I woke up, however, there was no mistaking it. Something heavy was on my legs.
Blearily I looked up. My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dark. Finally I realized that there was a very large, very content cat sleeping on the bed with us. In fact, there were two. Another chubby stray snuggled atop the sheets between Bianca and I.
I slipped out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Bianca. I gave the first cat a reassuring pet, then picked him up and carried him to the balcony. He did not quietly relinquish his comfort, however, and dug his claws into the sheets. As I pulled him up, he brought the sheets with him!
“Auo!” Bianca cried as the bedding was yanked right off the bed. The other cat slumped onto the floor with an irate meow, then struggled to extricate himself from the tangle of bedspread and blankets.
We finally collared the two vagabonds and dropped them onto the balcony. They glared at us, but then got busy disdainfully bathing the spots where I had deigned to touch them. I closed the balcony door, then helped Bianca remake the bed. We laughed as we snapped the sheets into place and slipped ba
ck in.
“You know that’s why I insist on a real bed,” Bianca chuckled.
“Room for passing strangers?”
“You know how I can’t sleep without touching you at least somewhere when we’re together,” Bianca admitted. “I noticed you were unusually snuggly. I should have known!”
The mood was jovial, but the night called for something more.
“It’s time to talk, Bianca,” I said.
Her chuckling stopped. The darkness got a bit darker.
“Is it possible,” I asked gently, “that we’ve overcome all these cultural differences only to get caught up in your machismo?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, confused.
“You’re macho.”
“How can I be macho? I’m a woman!”
“Macho men,” I explained, “when things get too close—meaning they can no longer control the situation—will walk away from the whole affair. That’s exactly what you’re doing. And that’s not all. Macho guys will simply ignore something they can’t deal with, like you and Piti’s cheating.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bianca asked, rearing back.
“You couldn’t control Piti’s actions, so you intentionally overlooked his selfishness. You said it’s OK because he is a provider. It’s OK because he comes back. You are empowering him to continue because you are taking responsibility for his actions. Male-dominated societies require acceptance from both sides. Hey, it’s not my culture so I won’t judge him. I will judge you, though, because you’ve moved beyond your own culture. You’re smart and independent and modern about so many things, yet still stuck in the old days with this one. Then I came along, we fell in love, and suddenly you start acting all macho with me.”
“You saying that I’m cheating on you, is that it?” Bianca said, revolted.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “That’s not your style. You’re a flirt, like me; nothing more. I love that, in fact. But we got too close. You realized you couldn’t control the situation any longer. Time to drop it and move on.”
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 35