A Thousand Words For "Red"

Even with the mishap I described in a previous post, Milos was great.  The swim alone would have been worth it, not only for its own beauty but for the way in which I was able to experience my own body.  Also, Irini is an absolute gem.

I went back to Athens on Saturday night.  Irini took me to Adamas, the port of Milos.  "Those ferries never leave on time," she advised me.  She was right:  Mine left more than an hour behind schedule.  I wasn't worried, though:  I wasn't making any connections in Piraeus or Athens.

If you've read anything having to do with ancient Greece, you might have seen Piraeus mentioned.  When people fly into Athens to take cruises, their ships leave from this port, which is in essence, if not in fact, part of the city of Athens.  It's at the western end of the #3 (green) Athens Metro line, which includes the stop (Petralona) nearest to the apartment where I stayed.  The train ride took about fifteen minutes, then it was about a five-minute walk (uphill!) to the apartment.  So, in spite of the ferry's tardiness, I got back at a decent hour.

The next morning, on the advice of the doctor at Milos, I called a doctor in Athens, who came to the apartment, took a look at my wounded toe and told me that the nail would need to come out.  Did I want to do it right then and there--she had the local anaesthetic--or wait until I got home?  I decided to do it then and there, even though I had to pay (I'll most likely be reimbursed by my health insurer) because I didn't want to think about it for the rest of my trip.

By the time she finished, the morning was all but gone and Athens by Bike closes early on Sunday.  I probably could have rented a bike elsewhere, but I figured that being off the bike for a day might not be such a bad idea, even if the doctor said riding would be OK, as long as I wore open-toed sandals.  

So, the afternoon seemed like the perfect time for something that was highly recommended to me:  the Byzantine and Christian Art Museum. "Don't think about the "Christian" part; it's a great museum," advised Kostas, the young man who drove me to Delphi.  He was right; I think I've found one of my new favorite museums.

"Byzantine" is often used as a synonym for "intricate" or "complicated."  If your tastes don't extend beyond minimalism or even late moderinism, you probably mean the latter.  For me, though, the Byzantine artists were just as meticulous and studied as the great Renaissance figures, even if their priorities are completely different. 

Oddly enough, I found myself thinking about photography.  The artists who made all of those amazing icons of the Orthodox church weren't, of course, striving for anything like photographic realism:  How could they?  For one thing, I'm not sure whether anyone had any concept of "photographic."  And, if they did, how could they apply it to representations of Biblical scenes?

What made the connection, for me, was that, like medieval artists of western Europe, they were creating two-dimensional objects and images, and realized that not everything could be "classically" proportioned.  Also, I felt as if some artists were exploring different ways of looking at (actually, imagining) faces, particularly expressions, in ways the early photographers did.

I can't help but to think those artists understood that whatever they were making could be seen in a variety of different ways--whether by the leaders of the church or the lay people, many of whom were illiterate.   Those artists even understood that what, if anything, you saw depended on where you stood in the church.  So they even created double-sided icons, like this one:




The museum also contained architectural adornments and other objects from Orthodox churches:

In looking at the painted icons, I came to this conclusion:  If Byzantine were a language, it would have at least a thousand words for "red."

I Really DIdn't Want To Leave, But...

I am on my way back to New York.  I wish I weren't.  In my next post, I'll talk about the last two days of my trip, which I spent in Athens.  And I will share more about what I've experienced on and off my bike during the past two weeks in Greece!

A Mishap And A Mining Museum

After all of those wonderful experiences I had on Friday (which I described in my previous two posts), the night ended, not in tragedy, but in a way not befitting of the goddesses.

After returning to the hotel, I dozed off for a bit.  When I woke, I was hungry.  It was past ten, and my mind told me not to eat at such a late hour.  But I ignored my mind and walked down to the waterfront.  I bought a soulvaki from Yanko's, where everything is fresh and cheap, and a small salad with olives goat milk cheese from Gregory's, a place next door, and took them down to a park by the water.

After reveling in the tastes of that moment, and the other sensations I experienced during the day, I started my walk back to the hotel.  The apartment in which I stayed the previous night was now occupied by a couple on their honeymoon so, as Irini said, I was moved to another room.  While not as spacious, I hardly felt cramped:  It's bigger than apartments in which I've lived, and had a balcony of its own.

But the doorstep stood a few inches above the ground, with a "step" carved of stone in between.  I wasn't looking for it:  I entered as if the doorstep were level with the ground.

I let out a howl not usually heard in Milos.

My left foot struck that "step" and pushed my big toenail back 45 degrees, pulling away the skin.  One of the hotel staff members ran up to me and, seeing the blood spurting from my toe, called Irini, the owner, who drove me--up the winding road I pedaled earlier in the day--to the tiny hospital in Plaka.  

There a medic splintered and bandaged my toe.  He didn't remove the nail; instead, he told me to go to a doctor in Athens, where I was headed Saturday, the following evening.  And he prescribed an antibiotic.  

Irini stayed with me the whole time and, the next morning, went down to the port, where my prescription was filled in a pharmacy.  When I went to the courtyard for breakfast, she gave me the pills.

I have to admit, I was tempted to change my plans and stay in Milos.  But I had a boat ticket to Athens (Piraeus),  where I am as I write this,  for Saturday night  and another ticket back to New York for Tuesday morning.

So I went to a place I never imagined I'd go:  a mining museum.  (Last year, I went to the Landmine Museum in Cambodia. I never thought I'd go to a place like that, either.) Turns out, Milos and other Cycladic islands are rich sources of minerals. Why do you think such beautiful pottery and jewelry were made there?  Even today, a few minerals are extracted for use in everything from paper to cement.  The exhibits also include films in which old miners were interviewed.  

What I found really interesting--and encouraging--is that the museum makes a real attempt to show that women did at least their share of the work.  Many worked as sorters and packers, but some actually worked the mines.  I have a hard time, though, imagining how one would carry so much equipment and bear the heat of those mines in an outfit like this:

Oh, Irini took me to the museum and back to the hotel for lunch--and to the ferry.  With hospitality like that, I'm going back to a place where an orange guy tells the world there's no room left in his country?