the other side of the mountain

Time again. I woke from a hard sleep to see that the clock said 8 am. I jumped out of bed and dithered frantically for a bit. I was supposed to pick up the rental car at 10 at the airport, and I didn't know how far that was away, nor how often the buses run. And then I remembered that I really need to do laundry this morning, or clothes won't be dry for my flight to Copenhagen. And I wanted time for coffee.

I showered and laundered and pulled things from one place to put in another. Finally I headed out the door at 9 am. Except when I got to the bus station, the next bus to the airport was scheduled to depart at 8:40. I stared at the woman for a second, and then it dawned on me-I had not reset my travel clock. Time for coffee after all.

This was the first time I've driven in about eight weeks, and it felt odd. I took the coast road south from the airport, and soon came upon a sign that said Monastery, pointing up a dirt road. Well, this is what rental cars are made for. It soon turned into a one lane road winding up the side of a hill that seemed almost perpendicular in places (the hill, not the road). I stayed as close to the inside as possible, and hoped not to meet anyone going the other way. That turned out not to be a problem, there was no one else up there.

I never found the monastery, but at the top, deep in the woods, there was a small unlocked chapel with a candle lit and a bell rope within reach.  No, I did not ring the bell, but only because I thought it might bring the cavalry or something similar.I eventually came across a sign with the name of a town I could see on the map, so I took it. After a while it became two tracks with grass growing in the middle and doubts arose. I could see myself coming to a dead end and having to reverse uphill alongside a long drop off. I may have neglected to mention that the car is a stick shift.

The rain began shortly after I regained the pavement. I had planned to rent a motorcycle for today's venture, but got talked out of it by a very wise friend.  I drove past pomegranate and orange trees that looked as if they had put their fruit on as decorations, goats scrambled from the road, and the olive trees began to take over.

My route was through the heart of olive growing country. I sort of expected to see rows of trees much like our west county apple orchards. The terrain is steep and the olive trees are all you can see for as far as you can see. Each one has a sort of half moon shaped retaining wall on the downhill side, made of rocks. The ground is very rocky, and the olive growers have put them to use. Some of the little walls have been there so long that moss and earth have subsumed the separate things into one.

The trip through Agiasos was awe-inspiring and intimidating. At each turn, I saw old buildings, or goats, or a shrine, or vines growing a red leaf carpet over some rusted metal carcass. Or a small shop, with old men sitting outside, talking endlessly about who knows what. The charms were endless.

The width of the road, on the other hand, was not. And I could not understand the symbols on the signs well enough to avoid driving the wrong direction on a narrow lane that fit only one car. So I was relieved when the road dumped me on the other side.

I ended up on another gravel and dirt road coming out of Agiasos. Then it started to climb. I had thought that I was near the top of the mountains, but not so. It became another twisting, narrow gravel road up a mountainside. Then fog, light at first. As the road climbed, it thickened. It turns out that it is more frightening to not be able to see beyond the drop off on the side of the road.  To keep myself from getting freaked out, I decided to think. You know, the kind you do when you are removed from familiar circumstances and don't have something to distract you?

First, it occurred to me that not only did no one else in the world know where I was in that fog infested olive kingdom, but neither did I.  Hmm. There was no real alternative to moving the car forward, and in fact, it was rewarding to boot. Even as I slunk past the hairpin turns that seemed to hang out in the middle of nothingness, not daring to look over the side, but unable to resist a peek, I saw the incredible beauty surrounding me. There seemed to be no one else out, but I saw signs of workers from time to time - a few trucks parked in a huddle, and piles of a shade cloth type of material, to be spread on the ground to gather the harvested olives.

Then it occurred to me that while I would not call myself a risk-taker, I am sometimes in situations of my own choosing that intimidate or make me sweat, or swear, like at that moment, for instance. I would not be inclined toward bungee jumping, or white water rafting. But to be all alone on a high, winding, narrow dirt track and not sure how to get down, that is another matter. Here is what I came up with: it's not risk, but a challenge that scratches that itch inside. I'm on this road because it's not easy, and it's unknown (to me), and it's interesting. 

As I dropped into Plomari, I finally did come face to face with another car. I had just passed a short wall and a parked car with little room to spare. The thought of backing between them was unpleasant. Fortunately for me, the other vehicle found a turnout, and gave me the street. 

Plomari is on the south end of the island, and like so many towns here, it's built into the hills, with stairways that serve as streets, and sudden dead ends into cliffsides or drops. I found parking along the harbor and explored on foot. I had lunch at a taverna. Several men sat outside eating, talking and drinking ouzo (in addition to olive production, the area is known for making ouzo). They seemed unconcerned about an afternoon schedule. I ate inside, mostly so as not to stifle their conversation. The woman who cooked and served me gave me directions onward. I rather wanted to avoid returning to Mytilene in the dark, so I took the paved route home.