Cyprus Delight

I went to sleep on Sunday night dreaming of breakfast  - which I missed as I slept in on Monday morning. There is irony for you.

After a good shower and some cheese from our fridge supply, we drove up to Ktima Paphos (the old town perched on the hill) in search of the two museums we knew to be open on Monday. Having struggled to find a free spot, I parked in a cactus and we proceeded to the Byzantine Museum via the municipal gardens. Opposite was a shop called "Thesis". They were having a sale. No comment. We left our staff in a locker in the main entrance and the proprietor showed us the oldest icon – 1300 years old. "10 years younger than me," he said. The icons were beautiful – all painted directly onto the wood and using texture as well as colour, with intricate patterns carved into the halos. I was eavesdropping on some German women who seemed to know their stuff and were discussing each icon as they walked around. I think the gist of what they were saying is that the style remained remarkably consistent throughout the centuries of Venetian rule. The lost some of their credibility, however, when one of them described the Madonna and child collection as “ein Babyfest” – I know Christoph assures me there is no such word in German, but (a) that never stopped a German before and (b) I know what I heard. There was a room of vestments and Bethhad guessed correctly that my favourite would be the purple one, with gold embroidery. She picked out a crown to match, and it's sweet that she thinks they'll make me a bishop by the end of the fortnight. 

Andreas, the proprietor, showed us the icons that he made himself and showed me my name saint, Katerina. "This is you, see, with the crown." They clearly appreciate me here. He told us how he started sculpting icons to make ends meet when it was illegal to have more than one job in Cyprus – so he didn't get caught be changed a letter of his name on the packaging. Then when I bought icons he insisted I have a free postcard of his church at Geroskipou, and said we must visit there. He also plied us with Cyprus Delight (think Turkish delight only definitely not Turkish) – "one for the road?"

We retraced our steps to the Ethnographical Museum, housed in a large still occupied home. Opposite Beth spied a vestment tailoring shop and went in to ogle fabrics. The lower level of the museum was laid out as a traditional Cypriot dwelling – a classic hot country rooms-off-courtyard set up.

They have quite the collection of farm implements and workshop items that show how labour-intensive ordinary life was until very recently.

This ingenious contraption is a hand-powered olive press, with the initial crushing done by the big rock bit and the oil finally collected using the wooden machine to the rear.

 This is a chapel in a cave off the courtyard.

Returning to the car we we left in the large cactus, we climbed in (only slightly perforated) and followed the war in the streets over to the bazaar end of town, where we parked by the mosque in the Mouflattos area. A cafe on the corner offered a "mosque special" takeaway coffee.

The market was eerily deserted, except for the German ladies from the Byzantine Museum. The random cluster of postcard and magnet stands sent me on a payment odyssey to three stalls - which is how I found out that they were closing for a siesta. We had our own siesta at a cafe, outdoors overlooking Kato Paphos and the sea.

We enjoyed mixed kebabs in a leisurely manner then returned to the hotel to lounge in the common area. Beth got online and we watched the Big Bang Theory. I wrote up my journal! We ate from our fridge supply watching New Tricks. I ended the evening drifting off in the lobby as Beth asked, "Kathleen, are you being mesmerised by the lamp?"

Yes, Beth. Yes, I was.

Sunbeams and Rainbows

Proving that weather follows me, there was a huge thunderstorm overnight and into the afternoon on our first full day on Cyprus. It rained intermittently all day, but it was punctuated by periods of bright sunshine against a dramatic grey sky and the wind sent great waves rolling in.

The breakfast buffet was promising, not lease the vat of mushrooms and onions that appeared every morning thereafter and seemed bottomless.

In the absence of sun, we spent some time after breakfast combining our thoughts on St Mary’s social events for semester two (Beth’s big project) and found our way to the pool. The only family in the restaurant with us by the time we left included a five year old boy who worked his way along the buffet table, threatening various cereals, until his tirade culminated with, “I’m gonna rearrange your face, punk!”

I went out for a drive in the afternoon to explore and look for a supermarket (almost all closed on Sundays, as it turned out). I drove out of Pafos and along the coast to Coral Bay where the waves were crashing in.

Looking for a supermarket, concentrating on the speed limit in Km, being aware of other cars and trying not to get lost all at once was a bit challenging, so I ended up getting list in Coral Bay. After a few more failed attempts at the supermarket search I have up, returned to Kato Pafos and happened upon a large and convenient supermarket, lights on and everything, but then watched several couples walk right up to the automatic doors and realise it was closed. I parked back at the hotel and decided to check out the tiny-looking “kiosk” on the corner by the hotel – lo and behold, it had a larger back section and I was able to pick up some supplies before returning to the hotel, forgetting to check on the way back if Beth had gone out and left the key at reception. Oops.

Beth returned just as I finished my very late lunch, and we decided to go for a drive – when my friend Alexis texted from a few miles down the road to say she was passing with her friend Becca and could pop in. We suggested we all went for a drive along the coast, and set off into Ktima Pafos, where Alexis and Becca showed us how to get to the market and a great viewing point. We ended up at Agios Georgios at the end of the peninsula after following a spectacular double rainbow against the slate grey clouds.

The clouds were beginning to dissipate over the Mediterranean and we were in time to watch the sunset while huge waves crashed against the harbour wall and the wind blew water uphill over the cliffs.

I stayed outside to take photos after everyone else sensibly got back I the car and out of the rain. Wimps!

We dropped the girls off at their 80s-themed, pink-velveted hotel. We then headed down towards the harbour to tour the newer part of town – new if you don’t count the Roman mosaics and biblical ruins, I suppose – and stopped for a stroll. The frozen yoghurt was in no way a contributing factor in this decision. But it was sugar-free and they mixed in real fruit to order! I had delicious black cherry and cemented my slow-eater reputation by having barely skimmed the top by the time Beth had finished – and she didn’t have much of a head start.

We grabbed ourselves food (or an approximation thereof) at McDonalds which was, to be fair, one of our only two takeaway options given the Sunday night closures, the other being KFC. They have something intriguing called the “Big Greek”, but I claimed some chicken nuggets as we went home to watch Hairspray.

Later that evening, we set about rearranging the furniture in our hotel room into a more pleasing and ergonomic configuration. We moved the beds to opposite corners of the room to create more floor space – finding, in the process, not just dust bunnies but whatever it is that eats dust bunnies. We hoped for mopping on Monday.

Eastern Journey

Back in April last year I thought about the prospect of another harsh winter on the windswept coast, and decided to formulate a plan to cope with it. I spent a few days mulling over my options, and abandoned all pretense that it would be bearable when Beth suggested escaping for sunnier climes. Thinking of the warmest places in Europe and with a mind to the entertainment of two biblical studies researchers, we settled on Cyprus, which Beth (for unknown reasons) conflated with Sicily for a few weeks... So by the first of May we had a flight to Pafos booked and had selected the most insane-looking hotel I could find. Thus, we found ourselves at last hurtling towards Edinburgh Airport on a dreich January morning.

Just made luggage weight limit – 19.6 Kg! I was remembered by the mobility assistants though disconcerted by PA announcement describing me as a “Major Romeo” (Beth’s suggestion “Mobility Requirement”)

Got fasttracked through security again and taken up to aircraft in lift. Snow forecast. It was very windy and they took their time letting us on board, so we sat there swaying gently in the breeze and hoping the lift was solid. On board we found a free row and the flight was fairly painless, with our four hours taking us over Germany, via Prague, Sofia and Izmir to Pafos at sunset.

After a quick trip through the tiny airport we found the bus for the car hire place. An equally rapid stop there had us on the road and speeding towards our hotel (by way of a diversion that was to become very familiar over our fortnight on the island). We found the hotel without a problem, despite my repeated attempts to indicate with my wipers; the Nissan Tiida had the controls on the opposite side to my car. I almost mastered the foot brake.

The hotel was a beautiful monstrosity – we agreed that when we stop finding the décor entertaining it will be a very bad sign. Roman title, Greek frescoes, Egyptian papyri, Swiss chalet doors – and walls all frescoes, mirrors or furry leopard print. Coooooool.

We decided to eat at the buffet in the restaurant before unloading the car. After unpacking we watched some of our DVDs… Start as you mean to go on, I suppose. Let the relaxation commence!

A random snapshot of a visit to NYC, 1 July 2003

Our second day began with a rather mysterious phone call at 5am, which cut off before we could see who it was. During the remaining couple of hours of sleepy time, many weird dreams involving cheese tap-danced their way into my head. I embraced the feeling of triumph upon managing not to scald myself in the shower, even if there did follow a manic search for my deordorant (there follows, in my notes, an insulting paragraph on American deodorant, which I have excised to spare controversy!).

We proceeded to have an uncharacteristically unhealthy breakfast of both a muffin and a cinnamon cake-thing. After much vigorous tooth-brushing, we set about organising a central America-compatible mobile phone [NB: I was on my way to a summer in El Salvador at this point]. Ironically, it took four phone calls and two editions of the Manhattan yellow pages to get the right number.

What to do? We decided not to go to the Stock Exchange, having been warned about the queues. So much to see, by boat, bus or subway - the world is our small, not very fresh oyster. Time for a few words of spontaneous prayer, watched by a sceptical Dodo:

"If I die on this trip, dear Lord, please don't let them Fed-Ex me home. I saw Castaway, If some courier gets shipwrecked, he'll be eating me for weeks. Except... that didn't happen in Castaway."

Eventually we decided to wander along to the Empire State Building via Greeley Square. I gave the lecture on Horace, as was my duty, but since we were heading East on 34th, "Go west, young man," just confused the issue.

Looking at the Empire State Building, 1 July 2003

How would it have felt to be part of the construction team? From New Jersey, its midtown surroundings look like mere foundations of buildings yet to stack up. The Empire State Builing towers above them all, delicate and elegant, but it looks lonely up there.

From the top, the whole of New York City's five boroughs are visible, and a couple of dozen miles beyond on a clear day. I think I would worry more about those clear days than poor weather. Even with the crush of summer tourists, the top of the Empire State Building can seem eerily quiet, especially after the noise of the city at ground level. Each day, for months on end, to ascend to the manmade world's highest point and to see the entire metropolis spread out below?

On one level it must have been awe-inspiring, to see a unique view and to be among the first of millions. However, I suspect there must have been an equal sense of isolation, in a very real sense departing the city before the main rush hour and remaining quite separate from the life of the very city they were working to serve. The story could have been written by a modern-day Victor Hugo, a thousand Quasimodos in the world's greatest belltower.

Arrivals and Departures: Sailing into Kristiansand, 13 Sept 2003

I spare a moment to wonder - is this all there is to travel? A series of arrivals and departures which serve as rites of passage, marking the traveller's transition from expectation to reflection; in between, the brief parts of the trip in which things actually happen? Maybe that's all there is to life, and why we refer to life as a journey. More time spent in transit, while relatively brief events shape the spaces between. Can life be viewed as a relentless stream of anticipation and consequence?

Back on the Baggage Carousel

Finally off! Somewhat unexpected. Until last night, I half thought we might not get away. Multiple illnesses, one bereavement – not your usual run up to a holiday. Except in our family. Have discovered that I’m the calm one in this family, which is not exactly comforting. Mother tutting loudly at whiff of queue-jumpers while Dodo voiced concerns about how he didn’t feel anxiety at the prospect of being on holiday, and the unusual absence of anxiety was making him anxious. He then dissolved into a quivering wreck. I truly am the glue that holds this whole amateur tap dance troupe together.

After walking three miles to the gate, we got settled at the rear of the mob, probably a trademark of budget airlines and bussed in for this purpose, who were slouching redundantly at the closed gate. We had to climb over a few to get onto the plane… Three hours later we were coming into land enjoying some cheerful bickering about the glacial speed of Dodo’s photography over gorgeous sunny Lisbon. 

It turns out that, for a slightly pained and sensitive arthritic, going limp for the landing is a real joint-saver. Unfortunately, it also makes other passengers wonder what you’re doing. On disembarkation we walked even further than we had in Edinburgh to collect our bags.

Don’t even ask about the familial trauma that ensued when we tried to get the bus. The short version is that we looked up the right bus, found where it left from, got on the bus and got off at the right place. No misdirections or obstacles. The long version involves the loss of the Dodo who evaporated somewhere around the taxi rank, my mother befriending a porter by barrelling towards him down a steep incline with her luggage trolley, my abortive first attempts at Portuguese including an amused bus driver and a rummage for change, M and I feeling really bad about displacing the two Portuguese ladies who have up their seats, insisting that we sat down, me getting buried under all the family hand luggage, near conflict when I said we weren’t getting off at the wrong stop, and my father rugby tackling an unfortunate Scandinavian. I wish I made that last one up.

On the plus side, Lisbon seems very exotic, with its yellow Mediterranean light and big chunky palm trees everywhere. On the way in we passed at least give really great Art Nouveau buildings and – slight culture shock here – a full-fledged Guimard metro station entrance.

After checking in and getting settled, we went to hang out on the roof for a while. I got a foretaste of how this holiday will proceed – with my mother shoving me towards any Portuguese person crying, “Help us! Help us!” Am not entirely convinced that she knows I’m not actually fluent in Portuguese.

Wonderful view from the roof, in great light, while the moon rose over Alfama. We watched a pigeon clearly having a problem with heights. And enjoyed the view.

After a short break we stopped at tourist info for leaflets en route to the Hard Rock Café, where we stuffed ourselves, sitting onstage in a converted theatre with a pink Cadillac suspended over our heads. “You always wanted to be on the stage,” Dodo quipped.

After some night-time pictures, we ended a suitably surreal day with a hunt for the bathroom light switch, a head trapped in the lift door and a strange coffee-making method due to the lack of a kettle.

In Defence of Sightseeing

The air was heavy. A red mist began to rise around my head. I had a vision of myself vaulting over the child below. What kind of stupid man would block the bus exit with his buggy and refuse to budge? If one cannot respond to a kind request, I fumed, what hope is there for humanity?

Then it happened. I tutted. Loudly.

My mind flashed back to a similar bus situation, four weeks earlier, as the blue-rinsed commuters telegraphed their disapproval of one woman's pram-wrestling boarding of the number 81. It struck me: I had become a little old Parisian lady.

This kind of self-discovery, to my mind, puts Marco Polo to shame and is the holy grail for the introspective travel writer. Especially as it's about me. Except for one thing: all of the above took place in the shadow of the Sacre Coeur.

Thousands of independent travellers share a horror of the overfamiliar; we want to emphasise our thorough appreciation of a place and its culture, gain an insight into the people - and we would not be caught dead up the Eiffel Tower. It seems self-evident that the worst parts of any destination, the most money-grabbing, tourist heaving aspects, will be found in impressive proportion within viewing distance of any major monument. Much of it gives the impression (not entirely inaccurately) that tourist are a bottomless pit of money. At Notre Dame one may enjoy waving bits of paper before the nose if one stands still for more than thirty seconds, the aforementioned Tour Eiffel boasts unrivalled queuing, while at the Louvre a prospective admirer of the Mona Lisa will no doubt appreciate the tranquility afforded by four hundred jostling elbows. Worse still, we find ourselves surrounded by pale imitations of ourselves in the form of novelty T-shirt wearing, socks-with-sandals sporting, tacky fridge magnet purchasing tourists. I choke on the word.

The disappointments and inconveniences of major tourist sights are well documented, and the reasons for avoiding such tourist-crammed areas are considered and well-meant (as well as a little snobbish). When one wants to gain a deeper understanding of the local people and their lifestyles, there really isn't a lot you can do about it when yelling your crepe order over the heads of an idling tour group.

In a city like Paris, however, non-touristy sights are thin on the ground. Nowhere in the world have I encountered such a density of - gulp - attractions, but the annual turnover of tourists within its twenty arrondissements more than compensates. More to the point, had I gone to Paris as a student and not visited any of the tourist destinations, what would I have missed?

I may have missed out on the beautiful Pantheon with its confused ecclesiastical heritage, or the view from the Pompidou Centre. When you've got postcards to send anyway, why not buy them at St-Michel with everyone else, where genuine Parisian students hang out and you can witness a political demonstration or two?

There's a reason that the Musee D'Orsay is a popular destination - its collection - and while Versailles can be downright unpleasant with its surfeit of tourists, once you get past the gritting of teeth and grumbles of, "Someone should really do something," the apartments really do provide an insight into the ambitions of Louis XIV. While travellers may be justly disinterested in the doings of the tourist masses, there's little point in getting snobby towards those who have a genuine interest in and knowledge of local history.

People travel for all sorts of reasons. I find it quite wrong to suggest that going to "see things" is in any way an invalid proposition. There are good reasons for travellers to be interested in people and character, but many of us have more physical interests, particularly those with a passion for architecture. In the style and decor of a church many travellers can read insight not only into the current population, but into the priorities and preoccupations of long-dead designers and craftsmen. In this spirit I chased down the Lavirotte-designed public toilets at Madeleine - perhaps off the tourist trail themselves; certainly under it - and the Opera Garnier, my spiritual home and favourite building in Paris. And I don't care if it is crawling with tourists. It's magnificent.

Much is dependent on outlook. One can find oneself immersed in a city, speaking the language, surrounded by locals, and still gain no insight into the society. Equally, one can queue for the Louvre with a thousand tourists and be motivated by a love for their extensive collection of pre-19th century art, ancient Babylonian decor, or Levantine religious sculpture. Is this wrong? Is it shallow to be concerned with anything beyond the local community, or to be primarily interested in other things? An interesting question.

I confess that I do own quite the tacky fridge magnet collection - but I still haven't been up the Eiffel Tower.

Final visits and comfort tourism

Ladies and gentlemen, the Opera Garnier.

Most of you know now that I have returned from Paris due to ill-health. This makes the last few days very chaotic and haphazard, so I will condense the weekend's events into things I actually did. For the most part, that means the Friday. I was in a lot of pain and didn't go to class that morning, but in the afternoon as I considered my options I decided to indulge in a bit of "comfort tourism", and gravitated to my favourite building in Paris.

The Opera Garnier was built by Charles Garnier in an original and extravagant style which he dubbed "Napoleon III". Here's the bust of the architect outside.

Inside, there is a lot of decoration, but I don't find it over-the-top. I mean, it is over-the-top - it's opulent and involves a lot of ornamentation - but it's anchored by simple, sweeping shapes and columns and the colour and detail is tempered by an expanse of pale marble. The facade alone looks monochrome, but is, in fact, constructed from 23 different types of marble.

It is also, of course, the inspiration for Gaston Leroux's novel about the phantom. When you see the level of detail and ornamentation reflection in the proliferation of mirrored surfaces, one can understand

Now, that's a candelabra.

The grand staircase from below.

See that statue just to the left of the central opening? These are its casual feet.

I love it. And there's nothing quite like an auditorium, especially an opera house like this one, in which most gallery seats are in boxes. From one such box I saw the ballet La Dame aux Camelias last summer.

The ceiling hosts a spectacular and Parisian Chagall mural, controversial not, as you might think, primarly because of its incongruous style, but because it's pretty much glued on over an earlier one and, as far as I understand, no one knows how to remove it without damaging the one underneath, but they also know that the glue will need to be replaced at some stage.

Talking of spectacular ceilings, I think my favourite parts of the opera house are the following two ceilings in very small anterooms off the main ballroom.

It's like someone packaged up my aesthetic and gave me it for Christmas.

Now the view from the terrace over the Avenue de l'Opera. This, to me, is Paris. Home sweet Paris.

Even being really tired on the Monday night (yep, we're jumping all over the place in the timeline), having eaten with Matt and Alissa, when I changed buses by walking across this square I felt quite at home.

This is the very shiny grand ballroom.

And from above, as it is best seen, the grand staircase again.

Many mysterious and unexpected sights to be seen! Wow, I feel like I'm writing a terrible 30s children's book.

The costume department has a display by the entrance.

I have one just like it at home.

Then on the Friday night I had the most wonderful French meal with Alissa and Matt - steak frites with sauce bearnaise, crepes and chocolat chaud.

Not everything in Paris is sophisticated. This, for example, is a disturbingly inexplicable advert for a summer horror film festival. I had to wait for a bus here every day.

Finally, this is the view over the cemetery - from my bedroom!

Chilling in every sense but the literal

I've been taking it easy as much as possible, which of course means that I have walked a lot further than I have been intending. It's also started to get hot - today and tomorrow are supposed to clear 30, after which we'll get a storm and a bit of relief. Roll on le bon weekend, je dis.

These people look familiar... on Tuesday, after class, Mary and I had arranged to meet Matt and Alissa for undefined activities that involved the words "sit", "garden" and, for some of us, "beer". Here we ran into them as the university offered un petit cocktail to its students.

After a brief discussion, we split into two groups - "me" and "the rest of them" - to acquire some lunch (I already had a sandwich) and to reconvene at the corner of the Jardin du Luxembourg for some civilised lounging. This is a building right on that corner.

We sat in the shade on benches and metal chairs and hid from the sun. I was apparently as attractive to a passing wasp as the mosquitos which feast on me constantly in this city, as it hovered for several minutes, only deflected when I walked up to a distracting flower bed and ran away quickly, saying, "ow ow ow ow ow" all the way.

In due course Alissa was dispatched for some wine.

I had quite the adventure on the buses - in the bad way - as the others went off to St Sulpice. I took a bus down to Gare Montparnasse thinking I could pick up the 88 to go home from there. Unfortunately I realised after some wandering around looking for it that the 88 passes the TGV terminal rather than the main station. Having schlepped down there, and I mean schlepped, I still couldn't find the stop, nor could I find where I was on my trusty Paris Circulation in relation to the terminal. I couldn't work out where the bus had stopped the other day, on my way home from the 15th. I had to walk all the way home from Gare Montparnasse, when I was already tired and dehydrated and not sure how far it really was. :( about sums it up.

Sore and tired the next morning, I managed to dress inside out and had to run back to change! Even with one considerable delay, I arrived quite early and found an open pharmacy. I can't tell you what a miracle that is at that hour of the morning. Mozzie cream! In any case, I wasn't sure that the word I thought meant mosquito was actually the right word (it was), so I launched forth into an explanation of the "little animals that find me delicious". Apart from making the pharmacist double over with laughter, it didn't achieve much as I had to give up and go to class. I present to you, however, a photo of just one of my many bites in case you think it was not worth the trouble.

Afterwards I ran into Matt, and subsequently Alissa by some extraordinary coincidence. Alissa took care of the mozzie cream problem as she needed some too and was far better prepared to explain. Then I introduced them to the cult of the pizza en cone, having preached it vigorously the day before.

If you enlarge it, note the sign in the background that suggests that convenience is yours as you can eat it anywhere - on the metro, while walking, in a taxi, on a bike...(?)

Afterwards I went to the very hot Tuileries to try again for the Orangerie. The white dust that covers these parks (and some tourist spots such as the Louvre) is very unforgiving in the heat, and I felt like I was baking. Here's the view in both directions down the Grand Axe, that lines up the mammoth monuments from l'Arc du Caroussel at the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe and now La Defense.

After lounging in the gardens trying not to dehydrate, I went in to visit the waterlilies (nymphea in French, which is much prettier) by Monet. They were lovely with some really intense and unexpected colour, and gave a good sense of the late impressionist influence on later painters like Chagall. I took a picture while the gallery was temporarily deserted as I was hoping to capture the depth of the blues, but I failed.

There is a lot more wonderful art, I'm sure right up my street, in the museum, but I was completely wiped out and thirsty by this point and since I'm a student here I get in free. I can always return. It was a pleasant place to spend an hour and a half, just gazing into the eight huge Monet canvasses.