Peloponnese

I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.

Behold! I am the terror of the roads of Greece!

Having procured rental of a wheeled coffin, a Fiat so small I might leisurely park it in a closet, I take to the roads in the fashion of the locals. At first, I must admit that some of my derring- do is simply the result of the clutch, brakes, and gas pedals being too close to one another so that the slightest mispress of either foot results in any number of bizarrre movements. Fortunately, no matter the surprise, be it blasting off or stopping on a dime, it is always severe. I hate to do things half-way.

Driving that would get me in a wreck in the States, and did in January, is apparently what is required in Greece. Lanes, regardless of direction, are fair game for abrupt entry, and thus are only suggestions. On the Greek version of the interstate, I pass trucks in the emergency lane. On the mountain highways I pass on complete curves and switchbacks. I do not feel bad about this; I've not done one thing I've not been subjected to repeatedly. The thrill of mangled, fiery death as I hurtle down a cliff keeps my reflexes sharp.

Still, as fun as this video game is, the breathtaking beauty of the land mesmerizes and distracts me. Thankfully, I've been able to get back on the road in time so far; I'm glad I paid extra for insurance and road-side assistance. I may get a funeral pyre for free.

I stop first at ancient Epidaurus, site of the famous temple to Asclepios, the god of medicine. The temple and town around it was the Cedar-Mount Sinai, as well as Betty Ford Clinic, of its day. The best preserved building is the theater. No wonder greek playwrights were so good; they had to battle for the audience's attention against the jaw-dropping backdrop of snow-capped moujntains descending into the impossible blue of the sea. Broadway might be rejuvenated if it relocated to the Pacific Coast Highway.

I eat a late lunch of gyros and beer in the scenic Venetian town of Nafplio. I sit on a bench in a square and soak in the atmosphere of the terracotta-tiled town as four boys play soccer across the way. In The Innocents Abroad, which I am now reading, Twain says, "Human nature is very much the same all over the world." Two of the boys collide going for the ball and collapse in a heap. The larger, fully at fault, gets up and kicks the smaller for having done him the service of breaking his fall and for having the audacity to be there in the first place. The smaller boy, unhurt save his pride, glares, then jaws, at the older one, but in a moment the ball's been retrieved by one of the others and all is forgotten as they tear after it. I smile as I polish off my beer. I was always the smaller boy.

Back on the road, I wind through Argos on my way to Sparta. I get there at dusk. Gone indeed are the days of intentional deprivation. The helots must have won out; the streets bustle with commerce. I bet Sparta will produce the world's next great fashion designer before a warrior of even middling renown. Still, I plan on communing with the ancients of the place, even if it can't be Sparta proper, so I head to the hills, sleeping bag in hand, to suffer appropriately.