From Delphi I caught a bus to somewhere (memory fails me already), then a train to Kalabaka, from where I hoped to see Meteora. By now, english is RARE, and many responses to my question, "milate anglika(do you speak english)" are inevitably met with "Ligho(little)." It is humorous though, for at this stage transportation is reliant upon luck, and the repeated badgering of many different people for whatever small tidbit of info I can glean. Within moments of my arrival, I can see the peaks of meteora rising high above, and they are magnificent. These rocks are huge! It's amazing that 24 monasteries were built here in the 14th century. The point,I believe, to escape persecution at the hands of the Ottoman Turks. Unfortunately, it is here in Kalabaka that the feeling of unwelcomness reaches its zenith; people are terse, grumpy, and stare at me an awful lot. You'd think they'd never seen a coffee drop before! But enough about that, on to meteora! With no frame of reference other than the terrifically megalithic peaks dominating the horizon, my direction is obvious. As the buildings of Kalabaka give way to a more rustic appearance, I enter the village of Kastraki, and before me an ancient, cobblestone path pinched between olive groves and mountainous giants winds its way unassumingly upward. This is a somewhat arduous climb, as I'm only 10 inches tall, and each ascending step brings with it an increasingly forceful wind. The stairs to the first, and most impressive monastery, loom before me, and at this point the wind is taken a bit more seriously. These are the sort of gales that make you lose your balance, and much reassurance is laid upon the rock wall dividing me from a very steep precipice-and a long, potentially fatal fall to the rocks below. It was probably about this time that I noticed the road east, littered with taxis and tourists. Oops. But no matter, there's something to be said about working for a sight such as this, as if I truly earned it. The monastery itself, which I entered for a two euro fee, was unassuming and quite spartan, but if it was solace these monks were hoping to create, they could hardly have been more successful. A place like this exudes a sort of spiritual solemnity, and in turn invokes a somber feeling of respect. I step lightly, speak in near-whispers, and touch nothing. Photos, photos, photos...and down the hill I go. On to Thessaloniki, and the final resting place of Phillip II, father of Alexander the Great.
