The Last One about Europe. Promise.

Those from summer 2005 may remember little cousin Shay, the stubborn, smelly-footed 12- year- old, whom I kidnapped (with the permission of his mother, cousin Elizabeth, of course) and dragged up the East Coast and into Canada. I took him to three Major League Baseball games, a roller-coaster park, and Niagara Falls, among other places, and still he held firm that I had ruined his life. When he wasn't in arm's reach, he was brave enough to name me "The Devil" (which I'm not- so- secretly proud of, I must say). Now a petulant, if somewhat hulking, 14, Shay had thought it safe to deride me when I was finally across an ocean. Literary criticism knows no blood ties (as Pop more than illustrates...).

Last night when I arrived at Cousin Elizabeth's from the airport, too tired to attempt to drive up to Columbia from Charleston, I expressed to the beleaguered cousin Elizabeth my intention to "annihilate [him] a little" to return the natural order of things. He and his older brother were well asleep at this point and had no idea I was there. Poor, sweet, ever suffering Elizabeth, ever striving for just a moment's peace as the single mother of two teenagers, expressly forbade me from thrashing the boy (well, I was probably just going to hogtie him or give him a swirlie, to be honest). Reluctantly, I submitted, thoroughly convinced she had forgotten what a good time was unless it bit her in the

I held to my word. Really, I did. I didn't touch the boy. But when I coincidentally woke up ten minutes before he was supposed to, to get a cup of water, I decided that I would just scare the living hell out of him. Quietly, I tip toed into his room. The bear-like family dog gave me a once over and fell back asleep on the floor next to his bed. Great watchdog. I got in position next to his bed, arms out, hands gripped into claws, whatever muscles I could manage flexed, and...waited. There in the pitch-black, I stood in my tidy-whities trying not to laugh at the silliness of the whole thing. Still, I know (from experience, sadly...) that waking up and seeing me first thing qualifies as absolute terror on normal people's scale of such matters.

His mother came into the room to wake him up; she didn't bat an eye but simply told me to get the hell out. I told her that I wasn't going to touch him, as per our arrangement, but just the act of standing there in the dark was damn funny; it would be even funnier when he woke up, groggily looked up, and soiled himself. Finally, she had the good sense to agree with me, always the proper course of action, and left me to my hijinks. The boy slept through our exchange because a nuclear bomb hadn't been detonated.

Problem was that the not-so-little cretin hadn't set his alarm the night before. I was willing to go the extra mile for my art (of being a pain in the tookus) but this wouldn't stand. I pressed the radio button to speed things up and, lightening quick, got back in my hunched, terrorizing pose. Shay, thoroughly annoyed at his alarm for inconveniencing his beauty sleep, rolled over and went for the clock. As we made eye contact, I roared, my morning breath no doubt adding another frightening dimension to the whole ordeal. The sloth thrust himself back with a gasp and a speed I've never seen before and nearly went through the drywall. I howled with laughter. His mother laughed in the kitchen. He claimed, rather angrily, "You know you're not funny, right?"

Amsterdam and the End (Finally)

It took quite some doing (and more than a bit of manipulation of the French Rail System), but I made it out of Nice and, after a day of high-speed training, I was in Amsterdam. Considering the spleen with which I've addressed cannibis and women of ill repute, it probably seems a tad daft to head to their European capital (it's the world capital in marijuana, but I'm pretty sure Bangkok wins for ladies of the night). I choose to see it as facing my adversaries down. So, I wandered in the rain, the first of my trip, and passed many of the famed coffee houses as I struggled to find the hostel.

The office/bar/coffee shop was down from street-level and I descended into the haze and procured a bed, and after having one Heineken (I won't admit to any more after various elders threatened to send me packing to the establishment of the recently bereaved presidential widow due to the alcoholic content of these emails), I went off to find my bed and sleep.

The next morning, the seventh, I left my bags and wandered the city. What with the overcast day, the muted color of the buildings, and the lack of others out and about, I was a tad depressed. Going to the museum at the Anne Frank house didn't help matters. After another museum visit I was in dire need of cheering up and so I went to see the whores.

Even though I rarely care what people think of me, particularly strangers in foreign lands, I was more than a trifle embarrassed when i had to ask twice for directons to the famous Red-Light District. It would appear I don't have a nose for these sorts of things. Upon arrival two things struck me.

The first was that picking prostitutes is apparently like picking a puppy at the pound. Not you, not you, not you... Of course, personality is important in a puppy. I don't think the working girls could hear through the glass if I asked, "What's your favorite movie? Do you watch Oprah?"

My second profound observation was that the day shift was ROUGH. Maybe they trotted out the plain ones for those desperate enough to come calling in broad daylight; maybe beer goggles transform them into irresistable objects of desire; maybe at night, the darkness and red lights make them hard to see and thus mysteriously beautiful or perhaps just not too egregiously slovenly. Oh and they had bad posture. Every single one of them. The hookers of Amsterdam could use a good etiquette class, I think.

Other than the typical travel complaints, the trip back to the US was uneventful. Thus, blessedly (for the readership) ends my European Adventure.

P.S. I was rather amused to see that the first Latin inscription that I could perfectly translate was in Amsterdam, at a peristyle, which said, "Homo Sapiens non urinat in ventum". I think we can all learn from that. I think it's from Cicero.

A Nice Respite

I have since discovered that problems are not uncommon when trying to escape Italy (See 'A Farewell To Arms'); my Ozzie friends Daniel and Dana, had a similar if much more harrowing experience getting out of the boot. As for me, after being told that train after train was booked solid, I finally just said I wanted anywhere out of the country. The clerk's fingers flew, the printer spat out a ticket and I scurried off to catch my train which left in five minutes. It turned out I was off to the Cote D'Azur.

I got to Nice after dark and so made my way to a nearby internet cafe where I looked up information on hostels. A cheap, well-reviewed one was not far away. Hostel Chez Patrick had the highest ratings according to the websites I'd scanned. I'll never know though because Paddy never answered the buzzer when I rang.

Instead a little old French lady (LOFL) who ran the restaurant next door asked me if I had a reservation next door and when I said I didn't, she herded me into the restaurant and started filling out forms. My French is probably the best of the languages I don't speak so I got that I was filling out paperwork for a three nights' stay at a good price, but it took the LOFL bringing down a young woman to translate for me to realize that it was for a competing hostel. Fine by me.

I'd come all that way, had brought my grammar book with me and studied on the train; I wanted to speak French. The girl would only answer to English. I thought perhaps my pronunciation was off but LOFL understood me just fine and repeated what I said to the girl. Eg:

Girl: "What country are you from?"
Me: "Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
LOFL: (to girl) "Les Etats-Unis. Les Etats-Unis."
G: (Blank Stare)
Me: "The United States."
G: "Ah!"

Soon I discovered she was German, had come to Nice three months ago and didn't speak a word of French when she arrived.

The girl led me up to the hostel on the fourth floor, showed me my bed, and invited me to join the trest of the gang who were in another room smoking, drinking and fiddling with a guitar. I put my things away and joined the 'party.' It wasn't much of one.

I stumbled into a room of five Canadians, two Argentinians, and the German sitting on mattresses on the ground, rolling and passing around joints, drinking beer and wine and working out their plan to destroy the United States. Partly to get out of the swirling cloud of marijuana which had taken hold of the top five feet of the room and partly to add my two cents to such a prestigious undertaking, I sat down and helped them iron out the kinks in their plan, of which there were many since they didn't know anything about the US but what they'd seen in movies.

It turned out they hated American tourists, though they were nice enough to apologize for hating me. I don't like American tourists either so I told them I wasn't very fond of me either. Of course they then asked me about THE war. A 19y.o. Canadian girl, baked to the gills, asked me if I was for it. Knowing my audience, I answered, "No one in their right mind is for war. It's not like I say, 'Yay, war!'"

Not noticing that I didn't put the definitive article before war, they then unleashed their thoughts on American soldiers, particularly as one had only recently left the hostel. I have my doubts as to if the guy really was a soldier because he just sounded unhinged. Apparently, he'd spent his time in Nice doing push-ups, trying to show his hostel mates how to 'clear' a room on a raid, and muttering to himself. He also took every opportunity to tell them all about his tour in Afghanistan and the people he'd killed.

That last part is why I'm fairly certain he really was a pathological liar. Vets in general, me included, don't have a lot to say to other people about war zones. They'll talk to vets, since they can fathom what the experience was like and truly commiserate, but not much with civilians, particularly not foreign tourists. Also, in my experience, the ones who went through the worst REALLY don't talk about it.

At the start of these emails, I said that miserable experiences are a way to remember, to have markers in your life. Tha'ts only true for challenging times that you'll want to remember. I'd say one of the chief beauties of time is that when something truly overwhelmingly bad happens, eventually it's no more than a passing comment.

I didn't have a bad stretch in Iraq. I didn't fire my weapon and no one shot directly at me. Still, I hated every minute being there and a year of my life was basically erased. When I was there I'd comfort myself with the thought that someday the entirety of the experience would boil down to simply, "Yes, I served in Iraq," and perhaps later it won't even come up directly.

I'll be on the front porch, bouncing a laughing grandchild on my knee. He or she will ask what the world was like when I was young, and as I mention boyhood, adolescence, going to college, getting married, working, and having children I'll simply mention in passing that I was in the Army.

When I have gone through wretched, painful times the thought that someday I wouldn't recall or that they would simply become a passing comment has helped me get through them. Thinking that way has gotten me through heartbreak and war; hopefully it won't have to provide succor to me through worse. Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it does provide enough distractions.

Back to the Party. As I described the proper way to overthrow the US, they all listened attentively and smoked vast fields in the process. Then the 19y.o. wanted to repeatedly ask me why people in the military could be so slef-righteous and supposedly religious when "Thou shalt not kill." I felt that I were back in high school again, the only one not stoned in the room, vainly trying to explain a rather simple point. In this case, "The Greater Love..." wasn't getting through so I gave up and agreed that all soldiers were self-righteous, murdering hypocrites. She was very pleased with her victory, as her smile indicated, or she was simply in a stupor.

My time in Nice was pleasant, boring and, thankfully, inexpensive. I wandered all about the winding, narrow passages of the old town and was convinced that the police must have no other job than to make sure one joint is smoked every fifty feet. Strict state enforcement is the only way I can comprehend the wearisome regularity of walking through such fog. That being said, the more I walked around, the better time I had...

The water is as spectacular as can be expeted of a place so boldly named Azure. It was fairly warm and there were one or two brave souls who swam, but for the most part there were just sun bathers. The French Riviera is legendary for its beaches and for good reason. In the summer, tey are filled with legions of beautiful women with perfect figures, many topless. Alas, I'd come in winter. I was treated to (scarred by) the sight of rows of old, overweight Frenchmen in speedos. Have they no shame? The most egregious violator was a blonde, barrel of a geezer who had man-boobs. I thought to myself, "Honestly, I don't know why he's out here like that. No woman would touch a man like that with a ten foot pole. Hell, the vast majority won't touch me with a five..."

It was only when I got closer to that sad specimen that I realized attracting women was the last of his concerns as he was a she. After running screaming and crying, I resolved that if I ever get the chance, I'm outlawing swimsuit makers from producing for the elderly, obese market. Actually, I'm going to outlaw people from all clothes that they shouldn't wear. My arms are like twigs and my excuse for a chest chirps. I know not to wear a tank top in public. People need to understand the impact of their limitations. Seriously.

I was pulled out of the suicidal funk of having seen breasts that were last frim before Vietnam when my Christmas buddies came into town. Daniel and Dana were welcome distractions (someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady, someday I'll never remember that old lady...) and I showed themaround town, avoiding the beach. We ate at a bizarre French attempt at an American steakhouse and then watched a movie at the cinema. I'd heard that Eragon was terrible, so not having to put up with the dialog was a bonus. The dialog Daniel came up with (only Daniel) was far more entertaining, if far more inappropriately and overwhelmingly crass.

The Odyssey Continues

I shan't say much of New Year's Eve, other than to mention that when I finally fell asleep, over 24 hours after I'd woken on Olympus, I had done my part to usher in 2007. Exhausted delirium played a far greater role in my hijinks than alcohol did and, though I wasn't up to my usual manic standard, I did christen the dance floor and thus truly got the party started.

I must say that I began to regret it when the overweight, drunk American girls climbed on to the sorely aggrieved table and started dancing. The legs began to splay as if the table might impersonate Bambi on ice, but the girls, dressed in the height of tranny hooker fashion, paid no notice and took pictures of themselves.

I'd had to sleep in the mezzanine above the hostel bar/lounge, so when they cranked on the radio the next morning, early, I decided it was a sign from God to move on. As money has become a bit (HUGE) issue after the ticket, I figured it was best to travel. I don't spend money on trains. I decided to head back to the port of Patras; there, if I could catch a ferry to Ithaca, home of the great contender Odysseus, I would do so, biding my time on the sleepy, inexpensive island until it was time for the great trip north. On the way to Patras I succumbed to the narcolepsy I'd acquired after eleven hours sleep in the past three days.

Unfortunately, no ferry was going to Ithaca til the next day. I hopped on a ferry to Ancona instead. I don't spend money on trains, but I do on ferries (I'm so glad that I didn't have a Freudian slip just now and type 'fairies'. That would have been embarrassing. Waitaminute...). When trapped for nineteen hours with no food but from the overpriced restaurant on board, I had but little choice.

The ferry was late arriving so I missed my intended train; however, not too much later I caught one to Milan. All of Italy must have thought January 2nd was a good day for a trip to Milan as I stood in the compartment before the main compartment, where the bathroom is located, along with a dozen or so of the great unwashed. Sadly, or gladly I suppose, that was the most action I have gotten on the trip, as everyone in the compartment jostled against me, pressing me against the door to the world speeding by, in their attempts to finagle an extra micron of space.

A little girl thought it was great fun to wander amongst the forest of adults' legs while her mother screamed for her to return; when she did get back to her mama, the five year old mouthed her mother's clothed breast. The woman swatted away the daughter with no more concern than if she were a fly. That portion of the ride was understandably idyllic. At Bologna, enough of the herd departed that I was able to get a seat. The remaining two hours to Milan were much more comfortable if far less uncomfortably entertaining.

Alas, catching the later train had thrown off all my plans, as all the overnight trains out of the country had been booked solid, and so I had ended up in the one scenario I didn't want: being forced to spend significant time in the most expensive city in Italy. I considered finding a park to sleep in, but after I finally made my way out of the cavernous train station, so large it dwarfs many parliaments, I discovered that the streets were awash in graffitti and roving bands of unsavory, impoverished hoodlums. Damn. I had to find a place to stay.

I shall ever be eternally thankful that I managed to find a cheap hotel nearby without being stabbed in the process. The hotels are required by law to be rated by stars. I think I found the only one star in town. Regardless of its rating, I expected the height of opulence for the 40€ ($50) I forked over, and I was not overly disappointed when I entered the room.

The room was a tad cramped and Spartan (Hooray!), but it was warm and the bed was large. I was surprised to discover the bathroom had a bidet. Opulence indeed...but then I was a bit astounded that there was not a shower. No matter. The accomodations would suffice. For the first time on the trip, I would be able to sleep alone, with not even my dear, sweet, departed gearshift to intrude.

I've had intermittent sleeping problems for years and I've been particularly beleaguered with a fever of sorts on this trip, so I was greatly looking forward to the pleasant slumber which I'd paid so dearly to attain. I soon discovered that something was amiss in the land of Denmark, as it were. The walls in an American motel are an amusing nuisance at best; here, where the floors are all tiled, it counts as a veritable curse from the Almighty.

As this is the least expensive hotel in the city, I can't be sure if the incessant percussion came from prostitutes in stillettos dragging along their boot-wearing johns, or perhaps from a herd of tap-shod goats. At least the monotonous trampling was broken up throughout the night by yelling and door slamming.

Those who suffer greatly are greatly rewarded, and so I was when I pleasantly discovered there was in fact a shower in the bathroom. Ordinarily, misplacing one is difficult to do, but in my defense I was looking for a shower stall, not simply the head and two knobs sticking out of the wall next to the toilet.

Sorely in need of a wash to pull me from my sleepless trance, I took one. I finally experienced the opulence I so greatly desired and deserved. There was a giddy pleasure to be had as water caromed off me and splattered the walls, the sink, the mirror, the toilet, and the bidet; I soaked the roll of toilet paper, and gladly. At first I must admit I was a tad hesitant and embarrassed, but then, since it was obviously expected of me, I let myself go and enjoyed the experience, much like when I've made water when swimming at the beach. It was one hell of a 40€ shower.

Finally, A Real Mountain (of Financial Ruin)

I got to the little town at the base of Mt. Olympus yesterday at 430pm. The sun was behind the home of the gods, but there was still plenty of light, so I drove up as far as I could to reconnoitre. There was a woman working at the park station. She said it takes five hours to summit and she didn't think it would be a smart idea for me to try it alone. I thanked her, though I was a bit bummed at not being able to climb the whole mountain. When I got up to the trailhead, just as dusk was settling, some pleasure hikers were coming off the trail and said that as far as they went, about an hour each way, the trail was fine.

I headed back down to the town and, after eating and reading for a bit, I took the car the 22 km back up to the trailhead, which was at 1100m (approx. 3600ft). The plan was to sleep there ion the car til dawn and put in a couple of hours so I could get the mountain in my legs. The trailhead parking lot was covered in snow as I went to bed at 10pm.

Thoroughly dehydrated, I woke up at 230am. I couldn't accept having come all that distance and not at least trying to summit. Before, I figured it was an impossibility because I had to get the car back to Athens, but if I headed out soon and was faster on the way down than the way up, I could just make it.

When I get an idea in my head, it sticks. So, usually if I want something bad enough, I get it... unless it has the ability to say no ("Oh, you have a boyfriend...well, it's been a real pleasure talking to you all night and buying all those cocktails before you thought to tell me...").

So, it is winter and Mt. Olympus is the highest mountain in Greece at 2918 meters (9500ft), so I put on all my layers and brought my sleeping bag and extra clothes in my backpack. I also left a note in the window of the car with a message that there was a problem if I wasn't back by 3pm. I left my brother's email, just in case...

I figured that if a blizzard or something suddenly hit, the 0 degree sleeping bag would keep me alive, particularly if I buried myself in snow for insulation. It was definitely below freezing when I stepped off at 330am as the condensation from my breath had frozen to the windows in the car.

Even in the cold, I had to start peeling layers within minutes; a backpack is a magnificent heater, as any hiker will tell you. The woods were silent and bathed in starlight so I didn't have to use the flashlight but every once in a while when it looked like the trail split. Occasionally, the trees would bunch and so not only were the stars blocked out but the snow wasn't on the ground to reflect the ambient light. When that happened, I'd either have to break out the flashlight or bravely stumble along like Aeneas in the smoke of Troy.

My thoughts ventured to the Greek gods. If vicious Cerberus, a three- headed hell-hound protected the entrance to the decrepit underwold, what on earth would greet me as I made my way to Zeus' throne?

I made fairly good time for the first hour and then the mountain quit playing with me. The path increased its slope by nearly double and I had to stop every fifty feet or so to catch my breath momentarily and let the fire in my legs simmer down.

After canoing this summer, my legs had atrophied substantially and it took months for me to be able to try to run again. I'd gone at it pretty hard for the three weeks before I left, but apparently a week of sitting on trains had put me back to square one. Also hindering me was the fact I can't handle altitude very well. In Peru, I couldn't keep a thing down and moved like an octogenarian as my buddy Andrew, part mountain goat, sped right along with no problems. I certainly wasn't as high as I'd been in the Andes, but I was up over a mile and it was having an effect.

Regardless, I still made the summer shelter, the halfway point, at the two and a half hour mark. The patches of mountain without snow had long fallen below me. A sign said I was at 2100m (6600ft). Eight hundred meters in two and a half more hours left. Yeah, I could do that. I pressed forward.

"It turned out I didn't need the two and a half hours as I made it to the top in just under two. Surprisingly, it hadn't been windy so I stayed there for fifteen minutes, enjoying the sunrise and reading a chapter of Twain. Yup, one more goal down."

I would love to truthfully say that, but I can't. I made it another hundred meters or so up when the other footprints stopped. There was a solitary set of tracks that continued up the mountain but they were very large and had claw marks. I couldn't figure out what it was until I saw holes in the snow a foot away on either side of the tracks. A man was using crampons and poles.

I figured I'd follow his steps since he'd broken through the now thick, crusted, virgin snow. That worked for only a couple dozen feet because when he tried to make the switchback climb where the trail should have been (and was, just buried underneath several feet of snow) he wasn't heavy enough and so only his claws and his sticks grabbed hold.

I tried to make the climb and actually did make the first switchback, but the next 700 meters would be the same pace and I felt it had been very stupid to even climb that particular 15 foot section as I looked down. Because the snow was uniform, all it would take is one fall for me to go launching down the side of the mountain.

As I'd started the hike, I'd asked God to help give me the wisdom and courage to stop if it got too dangerous. Bloodied and broken, and probably unfound until spring, were my highest probabilities if I continued on.

I sighed and carefully made my way back to solid footing. I was back to the summer shelter in no time. It had a spectacular view so I decided to wait there for the thirty minutes until sunrise. As I did, I concluded that those that don't strive don't become. Sure, I hadn't made it, but I certainly wouldn't have if I didn't try (psychologists call this justifying). Failure is frustrating, to be sure, but it sure is a hell of a lot more interesting than winning every time (Hell with the Yankees!). I'm a Gamecock and Cubs fan; failing's a point of pride with me. Besides, I've found people like hearing a good story about a screw up more than a success. Almost no one asks about the river, but when I mention that I once planned to walk the country and stopped after four days, I get grilled. Doesn't matter much to me (baldfaced lie.-Ed.), I just like to tell stories.

On the way down, three foreigners were hiking up the trail. I said "Good Morning," but they were rude and barely acknowledged me. No matter, they were a bunch of sissies. They were all dressed alike, in pretty little boots, lycra pants, fleece jackets, thermal head bands, camelbacks, and a pair of hiking sticks. I must not have been cool enough looking for their club since I was in my Aussie hat, trench coat, black jeans, sneakers, and the backpack. And I only had a used Fanta bottle for a canteen. Dear God! I'm glad I was allowed on the mountain looking like that.

As I was getting to the car, I realized that a year ago today, I was with my friend Chris, scaling the highest peak above Boulder, CO. I've inadvertently started a tradition.

And now the financial ruin part...

With so little sleep in the past few days I just wanted to get back the 300 miles to Athens before I hallucinated. A @#$!ing truck decided it would be fun to go 10-20k (6-12mph) below the speed limit, so at the first opportunity I passed him, only narrowly making it because he sped up as I did. Oh lucky day! The Greek police had a radar checkpoint set up there and caught me going 30k (18mph) over the limit when I passed.

They not only handed me a 187.50 Euro ticket, but took the plates off the car. I was furious since that's $240 and I haven't sped in years (drive dangerously, yes; speed, no).

When I got the car to the rental place it turned out I had to pay double the fee to get the tags returned within twenty days, plus I had to pay a minor fee for the company's inconvenience of having to cross the country to retrieve the plates. It was either that or pay to rent the car for the 20 days it would take for the police to mail the plates. So, that was easily the most painful ticket I'll ever get at just over $500. I talked to some fellow travellers and they said to challenge the ticket through the embassy. Ugh. I sure hope 2007 starts better than 2006 ended. However, the trip is now 100% memorable. Hooray!

Cold Mountain

Where I have failed as a Spartan, I have succeeded in my goals to a) get cold, and b) be adventurously miserable. I wasn't being simply dramatic when I said I was heading to the hills to sleep. I did. Actually, I understated it; they were full-fledged mountains and even had snow dusting the peaks.

I would love to say that I took off from Sparta on foot and hiked my way to the highest peak, where, balancing precariously on the tippy-top point, I slept soundly in the nude with naught but snow as a blanket. None of that happened I can happily report. I took the Flintstone mobile up the side of a mountain, winding back and forth on a rocky dirt road that was partially washed out in places. If I could get that hunk of junk up there, I might be able to summit Everest with a Humvee.

I made it about 3/4ths of the way, far enough to see the lights of Sparta and its environs spreading out like intricate, incandescent spider webs. Thus at the end of the path, I parked and laid out my sleeping bag on an incline in front of the car.

I've found that, for whatever reason, the bag doesn't get as warm if I'm clothed, so I stripped down to my skivvies in the shivering cold and then nestled my clothes and myself into the cocoon of the sleeping bag. My first thoughts were with the constellations I saw shimmering clearly overhead. Orion, Taurus, Cassiopeia, the Pleiades. There I was, staring at them in the land where they were given their names. I know their stories.

I was distracted a bit from the stars by the not so insignificant point that I didn't have a sleeping pad. Even in a sleeping bag, one is necessary. Not for the padding, which would have been nice considering the bed of rocky daggers I'd laid the bag on, but to retain heat, to keep the ground from stealing warmth. Ground doesn't warm up without sun. Mountain side doesn't do that. Fading in and out of sleep, I turned from one side to the other to thaw myself out.

Somewhere in there I had a dream of being attacked by wolves. When I woke up next to shift, I couldn't go back to sleep. I was terrified of wolves; I prayed for wolves. I got the knife ready. The wind blew, the leaves rustled, and my senses sharpened, waiting to hear the nearly imperceptible predators making their way towards me. Thunder off in the distance and I listened for howls.

I war-gamed it out. I would make Menelaus, Lycurgus, and Leonidas proud. A wolf would attack; I'd spring out of the bag, sacrifice my left forearm, shielding my neck as it lunged for me, taking the lacerations to my thighs that its paws made, all as I slammed the knife just below the sternum and thrust down, spilling its innards at my feet. The beast would yelp its last breath, and thus release my arm. Victorious, I would calmly flay my noble opponent, cutting strips for tournequets to stanch the flow from my wounds, which I would bear stoically. Forswearing the use of the car, I'd hike down to the hospital with naught but the pelt as a covering. Me, Hercules reborn!

Then I thought realistically. Wolves are pack animals. I don't need to war-game that. Every scenario above ONE wolf (and even one would do me in) ends with clumps of André fertilizing flowers at the pack's depositing grounds. Plus I remembered that it wasn't so simple as popping out of the bag battle-ready. "Um...Hold off on eating my exposed face while I un-velcro myself and struggle to find the zipper in the dark." Plus, I don't think Hercules ever wore white briefs that his mom sewed his childhood nickname into.

Still, resigned to...whatever, I tried to sleep, but when it began to drizzle (not rain, just drizzle), I used that as my excuse and, still in the bag, bunny-hopped over to the car, unlocked it, and hopped in. Though it was not the same as being exposed on a pointy, rock-faced mountain side, I truthfully can state that a Fiat is no pleasure to sleep in. On a positive note, the gear shift and I accidently became intimately acquainted for approximately one millisecond during the courst of one of my million repositionings for [dis]comfort.

I managed to wake up at dawn. Homer describes it as "rhododactylos eos", or "rosy-fingered dawn." Unlike his description of the "wine-dark sea," he is one hundred percent correct about daybreak. A sliver of saffron capped the opposite peaks as the violet above lost its hold. Below, in the valley, Sparta and its suburbs twinkled on with no idea of the spectacle playing out above. I gazed at it all through thoroughly bloodshot eyes and with a weary, unrested body; perhaps I am Tithonus reborn. I was almost upset that such a fantastic sight would dare interrupt my nearly exquisite miserable experience of the night.

The next morning I made my way towards Mt. Olympus, clear on the other end of the country. Along the 450 miles, I stopped to tour Mycenae, seat of Ancient Greek power and kingdom of Agamemnon, and paused briefly to admire the valiance of Leonidas' three hundred at Thermopylae.

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.