From Delphi we caught a bus to somewhere (memory fails me already), then a train to Kalabaka, from where we 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 we can glean. Our train to Kalabaka arrives around 8pm, and within minutes we are met by an old man with rooms for rent. We follow him through increasingly darkening and narrowing streets, as I ask Andy, "you ever see that movie hostel?" Bad joke, I know, but I never saw it. Maybe after torturing the backapkers they invite them in for baklavas and coffees, I don't know. At any rate, we can see the peaks of meteora rising high above us, 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. Our shadowy old albatross passes us off to the hotel proprietor, who acts as if renting us a room is a great inconvenience. No greeting, no smile, just terse responses and orders. The rest of Kalabaka proves no better. It's reminiscient of that time a friend and I ate a sack lunch in the parking lot of the old Worden building in Plainfield, WI. scary stares all around. But that's another story. Is it the blonde hair? The goatees? Maybe the backpacks? I can't say for certain, but I swear I saw no less than 100 disapproving stares that night. Do the people of Kalbaka hate Americans, or are they just miserable? Or perhaps it's a strange bizarro world concept, where frowns imply friendliness. I will extend kudos to Salsa restaurant in the town square. The food was great, the prices reasonable, and the woman running the place was refreshingly friendly. As we left town later, two schoolchildren yelled, "hey dudes!" to which my cousin replied, "wow. A nugget of acceptance." I'll take it.
But enough about that, on to meteora! With no frame of reference other than the terrifically megalithic peaks dominating the horizon, our direction is obvious. As the buildings of Kalabaka give way to a more rustic appearance, we enter the village of Kastraki, and before us an ancient, cobblestone path pinched between olive groves and mountainous giants winds its way unassumingly upward. This is a somewhat arduous climb, as I can feel a cold coming on, and each ascending step brings with it an increasingly forceful wind. The stairs to the first, and most impressive monastery, loom before us, 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 us from a very steep precipice-and the long, inevitable fall to the rocks below. It was probably about this time that we noticed the road east of us, littered with taxis and tourists. If only the Turks could have found it. But no matter, there's something to be said about working for a sight such as this, as if we truly earned it. The monastery itself, which we 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 we go. On to Thessaloniki, and the final resting place of Phillip II, father of Alexander the Great.
