An Athenian Diary

36

On the Road with Kids, Part 4

One More Time in the Argolid,

and a Side Trip to Lakonia, with Friends

February 21-23, 2004

The lure of the Argolid seems to be irresistible. When friends come -- like Cheryl and Dan and their kids Rianna and Morgan -- and you're looking for some place to show them Greece outside of Athens, what can beat the Argolid? A couple hours out of Athens and you cross the Isthmus into the rolling countryside of the Korinthiad; green hills, stands of sumptuous olives, rows of tempting vines -- this is "the real Greece." A few more minutes and you are in Nauplio, the first capital of Greece, a delightful little town on the sea. You're close to great archaia like Mycenae and Epidauros, and Nauplio has its own charms of seafront and cafes. There's really no choice; if you've only got a few days, it has to be the Argolid.

We had another reason to make the choice. As we left Athens on Saturday morning, clouds glowered overhead. It had been cold and rainy on and off since Cheryl and Dan arrived, and our other destination of choice, Delphi and Meteora, being north and in high country, would be unbearable if the weather went bad. At least Nauplio was on the sea, which would keep all but the worst weather mild. So south we headed in our trusty rental van.

On the way down, we hit Mycenae, which is one of those unavoidable chestnuts of Greek touring. (For pictures from other trips, see On the Road With Kids, Part 1 and On the Road with Kids, Part 2). Our destination this time was not Nauplio itself, whose hotels were already long full because of the Carneval holiday, but Tolo, a seaside resort town about 10 km away. Tolo's not very big -- you can walk from one end to the other in less than 30 minutes. But it has charm -- the sea lapping a few meters away from the main road, delightful people (whose Greek was wholly penetrable to me, I am so happy to report!), and a warm, comfy hotel in which we occupied a whole wing, three rooms for kids and two couples (wow), with a date palm out the window.

The original plan had been to drive down to Monemvasia for the second day (our attempts to get a room there failed). We got in our car and headed south Sunday along the coast. But though the drive was beautiful, through charming little seaside towns, many still untouched by the bug of tourism, it became apparent that, at least by this route, Monemvasia was too far. At Leonidi we reconsidered, and decided to head inland toward Sparta, which none of us but me had ever seen. I touted Mystras, the great late Byzantine and Frankish capital of the Morea, which peers down on Sparta from the lower slopes of Mt. Taiyetos. So we turned west.

Leonidi should have gotten us ready for something strange. As we stopped at the main square to load up on food, Dan pointed to the great red cliffs above town and remarked, "It's the Greek Grand Canyon." Little did we know!

Back in the car, we sped west, soon out of town -- and the road began to climb. We found ourselves in a narrow canyon, with an intermittent stream -- the Daphnon river -- on one side of the road, towering cliffs above. We climbed up out of the gorge with hardly another car around us, till we topped out and stopped, just where the road turned onto the plateau, to gaze back upon an almost Alpine scene of pines and mist, clouds scudding by below us, tops of jagged peaks poking up in the distance. I don't believe I've ever seen anything like this in Greece -- and not just because of the scenery. Except for a sign warning about incoming trucks by a gravel road leading to a quarry, and a curious house in the far distance perched on the shoulder of a mountain, there was essentially no sign of human habitation (and the absence of little columns our map used to mark archaeological sites suggests this was true also in the deeper past, at least as far as big settlements or temples go). Were this magnificent, apparently largely untouched scenery in America, I have no doubt it would already have been set aside as a national park. That's surely what Greece should do here, too -- and the sooner the better.

From here the road led west through a pine forest. The trees sparkled with ice, vapor from the clouds of morning, now passed, frozen like sleeves on the needles and tiny branches of the trees. We came to the town of Kosmas, squatting on the top, cloaked likewise in ice -- a chilly and strange scene for those who think of Greece as a summer paradise of sun and sand.

The road wound on across the plateau, then descended by easy and almost unnoticeable slopes toward Sparta. We knew we were almost there when, suddenly, the looming, snow-covered ridges of Mt. Taygetos, the great range that runs from Sparta to the sea, poked up above the lower hills between us and the city. Sparta's a small town these days, two main drags with a dozen blocks of central shops and restaurants. It has always seemed to me a calmer and more self-secure place than Athens, or at least less nervous. We stopped to eat, then headed up to see Mistra.

Mistra, the Byzantine town and fortress, stands atop a hill just outside Sparta, in the foothills of Mt. Taygetos. We drove up a winding hill, anticipation mounting, up to the fortress gate -- where we discovered that the site was closed. We were too late. So we can to content ourselves with peeking over fences and strolling on a short path between the city wall and the cliff, to catch a glimpse at the end of the palace and its surrounding buildings. This place deserves another visit.

A long drive (by the new highway, paid for with EU funds) brought us back to Tolo for the night.

In the morning, we managed to achieve something that had been a desideratum of ours for ages -- a visit to the sanctuary of Hera. Last time we were here with John and Ellen, we had hit it just after closing; likewise when we'd come down to the Argolid with the kids in September, we'd taken a wrong turn and missed the sanctuary. Bad luck had dogged us since; we attributed all things that went wrong to Hera's curse for our failure to show her respect. This time we were determined to see her and to exorcise the curse by pouring her a libation. So we set off as early in the morning as we could manage.

This time we succeeded. The site was open. Armed with water, we located (we hope) the altar of her temple (the archaeologists argue but luckily I had been here with the students in October, and knew where the majority opinion placed it), and while Edie poured we recorded the event. May Hera remember, and leave us in peace! Of course, that didn't prevent the kids from falling off the edge of the temple terrace. What can you do?

In the afternoon we did the standard Nauplio things -- ascent to the Palamidi, the great fort that glowers above the town, and lunchat our usual taverna just off the square where water flows into a delightful pond by the side of which stands a kafeneion. After we ate the kids played and we enjoyed what proved to be the best day -- sunny, warm, what you come to Greece for!

We left Nauplio in the early afternoon, headed for Epidauros, site of the ancient sanctuary of Asklepios and the famous theater. But because it was Clean Monday, the Monday after Carnival ("clean" because you don't eat meat -- though we had, pagans that we are), Greek tradition demanded that you fly a kite. We had bought one -- the colorful fellow whose picture adorns the top of this page -- and we promised the kids we'd find a place to fly it (our attempt to smuggle it into the Palamidi to fly it high over Nauplio was intercepted by unusually alert guards).

The theater and site at Epidauros displayed their usual magnificence; there's no need to repeat all that here. But spread out before the entrance and parking area lies a big green space. Dozens of Greek families had occupied it and had their kites in the sky! It was the perfect place to fly ours -- and we did. Edie and the kids got it up magnificently, then disaster struck as it got tangled with two others; a hardy young Greek god of a guy had to burn the strings because no one had a knife. Subsequent attempts were less successful, though we got help from a really nice guy who neglected his own kids to try to get our kite up (while I talked with his wife, who teaches in a phrontestrion, one of the special after-school schools to which so many Greeks send their kids to compensate for the inadequacies of the Greek public school system).

The kite flying was the best part of the day for me -- a touch of real Greek life, under a setting sun, in the shadow of antiquities about which almost no one really cared, for it was Clean Monday, the day for flying kites.

We headed back to Athens in the gathering darkness, and arrived home long after the sun had set.

March 13, 2004

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