THOSE FAR AWAY PLACES WITH THE STRANGE SOUNDING NAMES

CRUISES

     are all about travel to far away places that stimulate the imagination,

  

ISLAND OF CORFU...GREECE



PORT AT IGOUMENITSA....GREECE



 basking in the sun, sitting poolside with an exotic drink in your hand, a romantic encounter with a stranger, frequently, and with no end to the selection, partaking of gastronomical delicacies, or, for the more serious eater…just plain pigging out.  Whatever your pleasure—or fantasy for that matter--- a cruise will fulfill you, lull you into thinking, if only for a moment, that life really isn’t so complicated, and undoubtedly leave you working overtime at the gym upon your return to reality. 

Taking a cruise on a luxury ferry is all of those things and more, for you can travel to your destination, but let someone else take control of the wheel while you sit back in your seat and enjoy the experience.

     

      For this nature lover, however, the cruise was all about witnessing more of the planet’s wonders; other than viewing them from a seagull’s vantage point, there’s no better way to partake of the experience than by looking back at them from the deck of a ship... with the wind in your face.  

And that’s exactly what I did from the minute I walked out on deck into the crisp morning air, until the flaming sun tucked itself behind the horizon and dragged that last ray of light with it in the late evening.

It was an uninterrupted visual encounter with cotton-wrapped mountains rising from the sea like dark giants,



COAST OF ALBANIA



of furry-patched, hump back islands, and the light playing off of their rock face,

 

of a horizon ablaze, and a red-stained sea,

                       and of the totality of sky and water,

and of how Mother Nature’s canvas featured them together... in perfect harmony.

That was my exotic drink, my encounter with a stranger, my gastronomical overdose.  And to think---it all came at no cost, without guilt, calorie free, and left me with a welcome hangover! 

             

LAGUNA VENETA

       

        I went to the bus station that Tuesday morning to purchase my bus ticket to Zagreb, Croatia's capital city. I felt a twinge of  sadness at the thought of leaving behind the city that had added so much to my journey. 

        I was prepared for a 5 a.m. departure the following Tuesday, but pleasantly surprised when the girl at the ticket counter told me that the bus left at 5 p.m. Much better, I thought with the news. I can schlep the hulk down the hill from my apartment, and catch the bus that will drop me directly across from the bus station. With that I began my day, enjoying my first shopping experience amidst the grandeur of Trieste's old buildings.  

      About mid-day, I heard my cell phone ringing in my purse.  I opened it to the caller.  “Do you want to go Thursday on a five-day FREE cruise to the Greek Islands?” My female Italian friend asked.  Before I could let out with a resounding yes, she added, “The ship sails from Venice! And returns to Venice. The only problem is, we won't return to Trieste until Monday evening, late. I know your bus for Croatia leaves at 5 a.m. on Tuesday.  Maybe not enough time for you to prepare for your departure?”

       I nearly jumped through the receiver with my response. "My bus leaves at 5 p.m.  And yes, absolutely! Venice and the Greek islands.  I can’t believe it!  Thank you! I want to go!"  

~~

      That eve of our departure to Venice I cleaned out the fridge, setting aside some snacks for the trip,  packed a few clothes, my cosmetics, and the family documents (I was doing research on my Venetian grandmother and grandfather) in my computer bag, leaving the "hulk" (my over-sized suitcase) to sulk in my absence. I set my alarm for 6 a.m.  

       As my head hit the pillow, I was reeling from the news, unable to process how the whole event had come together at the last minute. I giggled like a child in the darkness of the room, my eyes closing over a vision of Venice and the Greek Islands. 

      At 8 a.m. my friend and I met in the train station. We purchased our tickets, then boarded the train for the two-hour ride to Venice. I placed my computer bag on the seat beside me, happy not to be staring at the hulk taking up half of the aisle. My friend couldn’t believe I had stuffed five days worth of necessities into so small a bag. What she didn’t realize, however, was that I would have gladly put my things in my pocketbook. Or gone with just a toothbrush if I’d had to. 

    Comfortably situated in our seats, she pulled out her travel documents. She then began to explain the reason for the trip, and the details of the cruise there’d been no time to talk about the day before.    

     The Minoan Ferry Line, she explained, had offered a free trip for two to writers of articles extolling the merits of traveling by luxury car ferry in Europe. The winning article would receive a five thousand euro prize. The first article published, would receive a free trip. 

        My friend, who was an advocate for, and experienced in this mode of travel, had pushed to get her article quickly published by using her influence with a Catholic newspaper. Notified she was a winner, she  worked every angle she could to get the date of an offered cruise to coincide with my last few days in Trieste. 

        Our ferry trip was to sail out of the port of Venice that afternoon. We would spend the next four nights and part of five days sailing the Adriatic and Ionian Seas, making two stops each at Igoumenitsa and Patrasso, Greece. At those ports, we would drop off and pick up travelers, cars, transport trucks and their respective drivers. We would return to Venice early Monday morning and spend the day in the city. There, in the company of  my friend/interpreter, she would communicate to the priests at the churches where my grandmother and grandfather had been baptized, my desire to locate old family documents that existed in the church archives. It was perfect in every detail. Venice, the Greek Islands, and my Italian angel who had made it all possible. 

~~

      The train arrived in Venice a little after 10 a.m.  The instant I set foot outside the station I was swept up in the city’s energy.  There were throngs of tourists everywhere, pushing their suitcases along the promenade, waiting in long lines for the water taxis, crossing over the arched pedestrian bridge that led to the city that was connected by networks of canals. I wanted to join them, visit my roots. But not that day.

      I felt like a lost puppy, following alongside my 75 year old friend who  was unsure of the route to the harbor. And I was helpless to offer her any assistance. We were dashing along, aimlessly, pushing against the clock.

        I shed my jacket in the heat and tied it around my waste as we climbed up, then down, a long arched stairway, shouldering my computer bag and gripping the handle of her heavy suitcase. When it seemed we were getting nowhere, she stopped and  asked directions from a group of gondola drivers standing in a huddle by the water. They told her we had to take an overhead tram to get to our destination and gave her directions.  

        We kept walking!  No tram! We stopped to get more directions!  At last, we spotted the tram and rode to where it let us off  in a parking lot, with the port barely in view. We were fast running out of time before the ferry departed. The pressure was on. We started walking again, and couldn't be sure we were even in the right part of the port when  a mini-van appeared out of nowhere and came to our rescue!  

        Inside the cool station I flopped in a chair and pulled out my stash of food.  I gulped down the boxed grapefruit juice, munched on a hard boiled egg and sesame bread sticks while my friend went in search of a "man" who supposedly held the tickets there'd been no time to secure before we left.  It was complicated, no, disorganized, but such were the pitfalls of last minute arrangements. 

      
     Finally, with tickets in hand, we made our way toward the pier. There was a bounce in my step and a smile plastered from ear to ear. An adventure was only a few steps away.  

    The streamline ship with its bright orange stripe had its mouth open wide to the trucks and vehicles that were beginning to drive on board. Taking care to avoid the oncoming vehicles, it was there that we were extended a pleasant greeting by two of the ship’s uniformed officers, who were polished from head to food. One of the officers called upon a porter to escort us to our room and welcomed us on board in Greek. 

    I opted out of the elevator, instead, climbing the carpeted stairs, running my hand over the polished brass rails and taking in the ship's luxurious features on my way to our cabin. 

    Since our accommodations were free, I didn't know what to expect, but smiled my approval when the waiting porter opened the door to our spacious, two-bed, outside cabin with the sea view and a private bathroom. The company had spared no cost, treating us to a first class experience. Comfort was to be ours for the next five days. 

      I made haste to unpack my things, surprising myself at what came out of my computer bag.  My friend soon followed suit,  pulling the items from her suitcase and laying them in a pile on her bed. “I brought my house,” she said through a laugh. 

            npacked, Bags unpacked, we head to the top deck to watch while the ferry moved out of the harbor into the long waterway that lie before us. The deck promised spectacular views of Venice's architecture.

     

As the ship moved slowly down the lagoon, I was able to capture all the distinctive and incomparable features that set Venice apart as the "only city of its kind in the world."                

Its bridges—over four-hundred of them---that provided life lines across a vast network of canals. 

Its buildings that leaned into their neighbors for support, while the aging timbers beneath sank further into the lagoon. 

Its rich and long history, easily recognized in the cathedrals and churches that pushed their spires and domes skyward.

And, of course, there were those familiar gondolas that inspired one to write prose after a moonlight cruise along a dimly lit canal. 

As we passed the Piazza San Marco (Saint Mark’s Square) I was reminded of the photograph amongst my documents of my grandfather standing in the shadow of Saint Mark’s Campanile a hundred years earlier.  

Gazing at the facade of the  Doges Palace and the Bridge of Sighs beyond, I was reminded of a watercolor that hung in my home in another part of the world. The same piece of art painted by my grandfather's artist friend at the turn of the century.  For a moment, I had a visual of my grandmother, Giovanna, standing at a public well; a strand of misplaced hair teasing her forehead while she gathered water to wash the clothes she would hang from the window of her modest dwelling.   

The ship moved farther down the lagoon, replacing the rush of the city with the calm beauty of the wetlands where a lone fishing boat rested quietly in the water below.

    What lie ahead was the Adriatic, its mouth opened wide to Croatia, Albania, and the Greek islands. And what was about to be an unforgettable ADVENTURE at sea.

MODESTO'S NEAR-FORGOTTEN TREASURE

      The genealogist at the Mormon Church studied my grandparent’s hand-written marriage document looking closely at the faded stamp on the bottom. His eyes lit with excitement once he recognized the only legible word “Modesto” and indentified it as the church in Spinea (a commune of Venice) where they were married in 1894. Satisfied with his findings, he sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, stroking his chin contemplatively.  “I believe some of your family history may exist in the church records and a trip to Spinea would be necessary.” I was giddy with excitement.  He paused. “But quite frankly, you might not get the cooperation you need, and the priest doesn’t speak English.”  I wilted in my seat.  He offered to phone the church and set up an appointment for me.  I tried to hide my disappointment and thanked him for his help, but told him that a trip on my own would be futile as I didn’t speak Italian.  He agreed and said he could be of no further assistance.  At that point I felt like a person starved and looking through a slit in a door at a table spread with food... and no way to get in to satisy my hunger. 

      On the way back to my apartment I began to contemplate my options: One was to request the microfilm of historical Venetian records from the archives of the Mormon Church in America. That could take weeks, and I was running out of time.  The second option was to find an interpreter who would be willing to travel with me to Venice and Spinea. The chance of that happening was slim…and certainly not within my budget.  The third was to give up the search, which was definitely not an option!  At least I was at the right door.  Now I needed to find the key. What to do?  My inner voice told me to be patient and that the answer would present itself.  I listened to my voice and waited as the days passed and my departure from Trieste neared.

~

       One afternoon I decided to take my feet in a different direction and brave the maze of side streets that wound their way down the hillside from my apartment in search of a short cut to the Piazza Unita d’Italia.  In just eight minutes the unfamiliar area of the city I was now entering took on a whole different feel then the city I had come to know those past weeks.  The streets, barely wide enough for one car, sounded of tires moving over cobblestones, multi-story buildings crowding either side.  I knew a square neared as the hum of the city moved up the corridor and the air drifted with the smell of fresh fish escaping from the counter of a local fish market.  

The street eventually opened into the square where old gas lanterns mounted on poles and rows of store fronts featuring canvas awnings and wrought iron balconies gave it the appearance of a mid-nineteenth century market.  I felt quite satisfied with my discovery, and happy to have stumbled upon a part of the city that spoke to a simpler side of life than that of its opulent, next door neighbor.

A poster of an old photograph mounted in a store window quickly brought a similar scene to life, and it was in that photograph that I was warmed by my vision of beautiful, Giovanna, her thick black hair piled on top of her head with a loose strand teasing her forehead, the sleeves of her high-collared blouse rolled up and a basket draped over her arm, her son, William, dallying at her side as she moved beside the carts of a Venetian street market.  

     

     Wherever I walked I felt the allure of its cozy neighborhood restaurants,

outdoor cafes,

variety food markets

with their tempting window displays,

all to the background of the street musicians' Italian melodies from days gone by.                            

I found myself irresistibly drawn into its narrow streets and dimly lit alleys where boarded doors, barred windows, and crumbling walls held the secrets of its former residents, those residents like my grandparents who once sat across a dinner table sharing a dream; the same dream that would one day find them on a long voyage across a vast ocean to a land that promised hope…America.  I gathered my thoughts while the all-too-familiar aroma of simmering spaghetti sauce (“gravy,” as my Venetian-born uncle used to call it) took me back to a neighborhood, where, as a child I would often accompany my doctor father on one of his house calls to that building-crowded Italian section of town that always smelled of simmering spaghetti sauce.  It was there that I would sit on the lap of an old woman dressed in black, listening to her ramblings in Italian as the revered “dottore” disappeared with his black bag behind a closed door to perform his magic.             

      A discovery such as this could not help but add new meaning to my already fascinating Trieste experience.  I felt like I belonged there.  The place seemed to fit like an old shoe.  And now, comfortably situated in its sourround, the silent words that persisted when I first arrived in Trieste were once again calling to me, “Corri! Corri!” I hesitated for a moment—searching my memory, back, back, until I remembered my late father’s voice crying out to me as it did long ago. “Corri, corri!” (Run, run) he would shout as I rushed to the safety of his arms.  Caught up in the memory I was choked with emotion, my eyes welling up with tears.  I wondered now...were the cries his way of urging me to move toward my search with greater urgency?

~~

      The clock was ticking with only a week and a half left before my departure.  I simply had to find a way to communicate with the priest in Spinea.  I decided to call upon an Italian friend and ask if she would be willing to telephone him on my behalf.  She agreed, taking it far beyond my request. She was tireless in her vigil searching the internet, gathering more information for me, sending emails, presenting my urgent cause to this person and that until she finally found  an old man in Venice who made two trips weekly to the Modesto Church where he devoted his time to searching the church’s records. He was a ray of hope, threatened, though, by a dark cloud.  He explained that prior to the year 1900 the church records were in a state of disarray and that it was unlikely that he would find anything in that mass of long-forgotten documents.  Nonetheless, he answered her plea and offered--out of the goodness of his heart and at no charge—to see what he could do to help the “American lady in search of her family.”  Once again I had no choice but to play the waiting game.
       Then it came, that unexpected email from my friend who wrote:  “I spoke today with the old man who exclaimed,  ‘I began searching for the document but did not hold out much hope. Oh, but there it was, a large paper, folded and laying in a box!  It bore the name Abele, Guglielmo, the same name I was searching for!  It was a document dated April 14, 1894.  It told of the girl, Giovanna, and the man, Guglielmo.  I also found the names of the churches in Venice where Giovanna and Guglielmo were baptized.’  The real angels were serving the mortals,” my friend went on to say.  She signed the e-mail, SHERLOCK HOLMES.

       Yea!  I was thrilled with the news.  Venice was a must.  How could I possibly manage it on my own, though?  There was the language problem.  No interpreter.  Time was running out with only a week left until my departure.   

A"WEE" BIT OF SCOTTISH FLAVOR IN TRIESTE

       I NEVER KNOW what the day will bring because I rarely have a plan,  which allows for the unexpected and leaves me open to the element of surprise. 

Some days I set out on foot and walk for miles discovering the city's sights. 

Other days I hop on one of the buses that travel to all parts of the city and the neighboring towns and coastal villages, enjoying the colorful array of passengers that get on and off the bus, and the views along the way. Sometimes I get off in a remote area or town and hail one of the citizens to guide me to the sight I've seen from the window of the bus.  There, I walk a beaten path soaking up the beautiful scenery along the way and ending up waiting at another bus stop in a different town. No problem, though, as all roads lead to Rome!  Traveling by bus is a great way for me to see and enjoy all that the area has to offer; and at a cost of $25.00 for a two week ticket with unlimited rides on three bus lines, I can count on an interesting experience or encounter along the way.   

      

      One day in particular I decided to satisfy my curiosity and walk to the lighthouse at the end of the harbor that had intrigued me since I first viewed it from a boat on my way back from a day in Muggia.  It seemed close enough when I set out that morning, but remained illusive, for no matter what path I took in its direction it always ended in a dead end with the lighthouse beckoning in the distance.  I was just about to give in to exhaustion and accept the fact that the lighthouse was unobtainable on foot when the voice said keep going and sent me in a different direction.  Twenty minutes later the lighthouse neared and with a renewed optimism I took a side street beside a marina thinking I could reach it by following along the waterfront. 

       Situated beside the marina was a restaurant with a terrace and outdoor seating.  It was a warm day and the two men dressed in kilts seated at one of the tables caught my photographer’s eye. I thought. Dare I ask? Go for it! The voice answered.        
       I walked over to where the (presumed) Scots were drinking a beer and held up my camera so they could not possibly misunderstand my intentions. “Excuse me,” I said from below, “do you mind if I take your picture?”  The man with the feathered tam appeared to be flattered by my request and without hesitation said, “Why not,” and along with his mates, positioned himself for a pose.  Now my curiosity was aroused and I wanted to know what three Scots were doing in Trieste.  That’s when the man with the tam who later introduced himself as, Andy, said, “Would you like to join us now for a drink?”  Normally I would decline an invitation from a stranger, but for some reason, be it the mens' warm smiles, a parched mouth, or my need to rest the weary feet that had just tromped miles on the hot pavement, I accepted.

      Once I joined the men on the terrace I was offerd a seat, and without any further ado the dialogue began.  They explained that they were, indeed, from Scotland, and part of a group of ardent followers who had come to support their team for a friendly game (I can’t remember if it was football or rugby) against a Slovenian team, hence the kilts. They went on to say in their thick Scottish brogues that I sometimes had to strain to understand, that a large group of their mates and ladies would gather at the pub across the street from the marina that evening, and they invited me, no urged me, to come and have a front row seat to a “real Scottish celebration.”

       That evening as I dressed for the party I wondered if I should resist the “experience,” play it safe, and stay at home.  The voice said, go!  Half an hour later I was on the #9 bus that would drop me a short distance from the pub.  When I arrived several men in kilts were standing outside.

      Inside, all of the expected crowd had not yet arrived, but those that were present, to include the three men from earlier in the day, extended a warm greeting, and as quickly as I found a seat, I had a glass of dark Guinness (my favorite Irish stout) in my hand. 

      “Ah, yurrr (roll the r) the lady with the blog,” many said.  “We’ll give ya plenty to write about, lassie!  Yuv not seen a celebration ‘til yuv partied with the likes of a Scot!”  The man with his daughter seated next to me kept repeating, “Yuv neverr seen anathin like it in yurr life!”  

       

What with the enthusiastic intro and the fun-packed activities that followed there was absolutely no way for a person of right mind not to join in. The next four hours found me dividing my time between participant and observer, enjoying a great group of men and women getting the most out of every moment.

I was struck by the outward display of comradery,

their party spirit, and above all their tremendous pride of country which came through loud and clear in song.

They made sure that my glass was never empty, and in between the fun, my camera was capturing those special moments. 

They were Scots all right!...

those members of the Anderson, Ross, McArthur, Symonds and McKeazie clans, to mention some, all outfitted  in their kilts and accessories; no two tartans alike.  And there was no exaggeration of the fact that the Scots definitely know how to "do a celebration!"  

~~

      Did I ever make it to the lighthouse that day?  Yes, it took another twenty-five minutes to reach it, but it was a bitter disappointment and better viewed from afar with its reflection cast upon the sea. Without my desire to see it, though, I would never have had that memorable "wee" moment with that great group of Scots. 

~~