ATHENS

--I visited Spiro Vasilay's [Va-si-lee [accent]-o] Atelier. He's an important Greek painter (1903 to 1985). As the only guest the caretaker/curator and I got on famously and I loved my time there in that intimate space where he lived and worked. In addition to canvases he designed stage sets, costumes, book covers, record sleeves and so on.

--I wandered around until I found the Quick Spa where I enjoyed a body recovery massage.

--Because of yesterday's lost-ness, it's now easier to get found. I followed my friend Alan's rule to start out with a small goal, and then depart on small adventures that come into my path.

--Three young men asked me to take a photo of them. A photo of Greek ruffians, they said. Smoking cigars. I left them as they sang sitting outside the ruins.

--Up the hill a drummer and guitar player from Congo played plaintive music. I bought their CD. Two women rocked out while smoking cigarettes. I had a go dancing with one.

-- Discovered the Athens flea market. I found a bead shop. You pick out beads and on the spot they make whatever piece of jewelry you want. I had three necklaces made for presents.

--Then, on to conquer the Metro system. A young Greek man, his American fiancé, and her father helped me get back to the New Acropolis Museum. She works at the American Embassy. Her father (Greek-Canadian) came to visit them. They get married in September. Then the rest of the family will arrive from all over for a Big Fat Greek Wedding.

SANTORINI

--We took a mini-van into the town of Fira/Thira. Since I’d eaten earlier I went out of the town while the rest ate supper. I browsed the book store, and later chatted with an Italian woman who owned an elegant jewelry shop. The proprietor of the Slovakia joint wore a Harley T-shirt. We chatted about Harleys as if I knew something. He was sure my black eye came from a motorcycle wipe-out, and told the counter man to upgraded my order.

--Wineries not being my normal habitat--even though I lived in N. California for decades--I left early to walk back to the hotel. About 30 minutes easy walking on the road ducking traffic, and taking some photos. Pedestrians have zero rights here. Once I accepted that, I was okay and resolved not to do anything rash on the curves. Driving here on what are essentially one-lane roads is surprisingly deft, safe, and polite.

--Outside the hospital at the end of the evening we got punch drunk. I started singing “What a day this has been,” as others joined me and Charlotte jumped up to dance with me.

-- I peeled off our little walking group on the outskirts of Thira to see an exhibition of wall paintings at the town hall. These are replications of the friezes from Acrotiri, an older archeological dig than Pompeii where volcano lava has preserved civilization at the moment of the eruption. Another unadvertised opportunity I found by myself/for myself. The others dismissed it out of hand because they didn't know what it was and didn't want to climb the steps. It was perfect for me.

I stayed maybe 90 minutes. My method for exhibits is: 1) zip through to get the physical layout and extent; 2) go through more carefully to read the documentation; 3) go through the last time to take it in directly.

--I continued on my Caldera walk from Fira (Thira) through the villages of Firostefani and Imerovigli. The center of the volcano surrounded by the watery caldera is pefect for the sunset watch. I ate local green beans at Anestic, a modest taverna, and shopped for souvenirs at a mini-market. Prices much better than at the winery, for sure.

When I got back to Thira/Fira I hopped a local bus back to Volcano View Villas, walking back from Senior Zorba's--a Greek Mexican restaurant. Back in my room at 9:30 p.m. Called Becky to assure her the last chick was home.

CRETE

--I went for a sunrise walk and wade on the beach in front of our hotel, and started the search for rocks that Amelia and Maggie might like. These were little ones. The search continued throughout the day with the rocks getting bigger and bigger. We'll see how many get packed.

--Yes, dear reader, we did make it to the Falassarna Beach in Western Crete. I changed behind a building into my suit and charged into the waves for my first play time in the ocean. The snack bar at the top of the hill opened as we returned. Lemonade on salted lips tastes just right.

--The monastery museum was closed for renovation. The bus turned around in the parking lot of The Institute of theology & Ecology--the museum of Cretan Flora...Herbarium J. Zaffran. I suggested we stop here because so many of the women on the tour are garden buffs. I stayed on the first floor reading a book on olives in the arts and culture of Greece...thinking I could go upstairs to join them later. But, I got locked in. Made for a funny glass stage play until I found a way out.

--We ate a two-hour mid-day meal at Gialos Taverna served by the proprietor Sarantos Kostas in Kolibari, Chania. I took time to walk on the esplanade to take the sea air, enjoy the sea wall and architecture.

SURPRISES I COULD HAVE DONE WITHOUT
The Grope
From NYC to Athens sat next to a nice Greek couple in the center. When the lights went out the man started groping me. When I couldn't get him to stop, I went to see the stewardess to get another seat. If we'd been on a bus, I'd have done something more direct. Probably the only spare seat on the plane. Business class keeps looking better and better.

The Scar:
In Athens I hit my brow against the edge of the headboard in the middle of the night. Got the blood stopped and put ice on it from the mini-bar. There's a gash and I look like I beat up the other guy. There will be a scar. Every trip deserves one it seems. Since this trip is a short one, I hope the scar won't be too big. We'll see. The one from the 2008 Botswana trip is no longer visible.

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, my West African speech gave way to my Midwestern speech. I am going home...to my ancestral home, the place of my father awaits, heart beating as promised, and the place of our foremothers and forefathers. This December homecoming pilgrimage to Ghana has been a thorough-going success and given me exactly what I needed at this time of the year and in my life. I salute my West African heart home and the people of heart that land contains...and welcome its new president, installed yesterday, January 7th.

Many things occurred getting on the flight at Accra, at the Amsterdam airport, on that aforesaid flight over the Atlantic, and in the Memphis, Tennessee airport. Perhaps they can be spoken of later. No space of the journey is left vacant.

Upon setting foot inside my apartment and the balance beam scales therein, I discover that I have been on the HAPPINESS DIET: GO TO GHANA AND LOSE WEIGHT. Can't you just see the cover page headlines flogging that article in the women's self-help magazines in America? 10 pounds to be exact. I am now at a weight lower than before my move to St. Louis, a year-and-a-half ago. I have now lost the 10 pounds that I gained during the Winter of My Seclusion...and a few more besides. This is good. May the trend continue.

I'm pretty fried--yes, fried--I think that's a combo of tired and frazzled--and going to bed now...after a theoretical 24 hours of travel, but more because of the time changes. I'll be laying low over the next few days as I catch up on my writing and my biological body.

Ali with grammophone (Photo by Marcelline Burns)

Outside a small shop, we stopped when we saw a speaker for an ancient record player. Somehow it had survived many years in remarkably good shape, and we amused ourselves by wondering aloud whether Buster Brown and his dog Tighe might be nearby. We were ready to move along when the shopkeeper emerged and spoke to us in English.
---Marcelline Burns' "The Village Poet"

It is a small village of no particular note. Perhaps we were told the name, but it is now forgotten. The year was 2007, and the month was September. We were traveling through southeastern Turkey, a driver, a guide and 19 American tourists in a large coach. Our cameras had been idle on this afternoon, and we had drifted off into silence and into our private thoughts as we traveled in a dusty, rocky landscape.

Now and then there were small ancient stone houses, brown weeds crowning their flat rooftops. The neatly stacked piles near the houses---what on earth were they? “Dung”, we were told. “The dung is fuel to heat their houses and cook their food.”

There were no trees, nothing green, but lively goats led flocks of sheep and somewhere in the distance a shepherd followed. We murmured one to the other, “What do the sheep eat? Or drink…and the shepherd…where does he live?” We were looking with the eyes of urban America. We of an abundant lifestyle were puzzled by this barren place.

The bus lumbered slowly along a single lane. When the dirt road ended at a cluster of small buildings, the driver slowed and stopped the bus, and the guide said, “Time to stretch. Walk around. The villagers are friendly.”

The nice lady from Milwaukee asked, “Anything special here?” On another day in a distant city she had purchased two large, beautiful, costly Kulim carpets. She frowned just a little when the guide said, “No, just a village.” There would be no shopping on this stop.

When I stepped down from the bus, a small boy blocked my way. All in a breath, he said, “My name is Muhammed. I am nine years old. What’s your name?” His dark hair was neatly combed, his clothes were clean, and his eyes were mischievous in the way of little boys. He spoke clearly with barely a trace of an accent.

When I answered his question and asked him how he had learned English, his smile grew bigger, but he stared at me without a trace of recognition. He was pleased to have my attention, but he understood none of my words. He had spoken all the English he knew, and he couldn’t tell me how he had learned those few words.

We meandered along the one street. It was equal to two city blocks in length, maybe a little more, and at the end there was a boulder as big as a house in American suburbia. It was far bigger than any structure in the village. We marveled at its size, and admired one of the many handsome cats that lolled about everywhere. We nodded and smiled at a few men who squatted around a game, and then we began to retrace our steps to the bus.

Outside a small shop, we stopped when we saw a speaker for an ancient record player. Somehow it had survived many years in remarkably good shape, and we amused ourselves by wondering aloud whether Buster Brown and his dog Tighe might be nearby. We were ready to move along when the shopkeeper emerged and spoke to us in English. Excuses quickly formed on our lips as he invited us to enter his shop. Of course, he wanted to lure the tourists inside where he might make a sale. How wrong we were! He introduced himself as “Crazy Ali”, and he wasn’t thinking about selling something to us. He wanted to share.

I asked, “Who gave you that name?” to which he responded with obvious pride, “I gave it to myself more than a quarter century ago. I am Crazy Ali, the poet.” In my mind, I scoffed, “A poet! In this poor and remote place?” Exactly, and what Ali wanted to share was his poetry. Three American women had wandered near his shop, and he wanted us to come inside his shop. Politely, he begged our permission to recite one of his poems. I shall be forever grateful that we entered and that we listened.

On that day, Crazy Ali was a handsome man with kind eyes and lines that bespoke many years of joys and sorrows. His recitation was memorable, intensely and beautifully spoken. As we stood amid ancient wares in his dim shop, he recited these lines in a rich, emotion-laden voice.

DO YOU KNOW?

Do you understand how large the world is?

Even the sun will rise there.

The experience was unexpectedly, profoundly moving, and when he finished the four of stood for a long moment in a kind of reverential silence. Finally, I quietly said, “Ali, the world needs more men like you.” He nodded and then rather timidly showed us a thick ring binder. “Four hundred poems. I wrote all of them.”

It was past time for us to return to the bus. As we made our way out of the shop, Ali quickly took a postcard from a display, wrote on it, and placed it in my hand. I reached for coins to pay him, but he stopped my hand. There was a harsh edge to his voice when he said, “No! You gave me pleasure. Don’t spoil it.” Chastened, I bid him goodbye, and we walked away. Back on the bus, I looked at what he had written on the postcard. His words were an expression of gratitude for the moments of friendship.

“Crazy Ali, I often think of you, a good man in a small village in Turkey.”

Copyright 2008 by Marcelline Burns

Journeys don't spare us; they drag us through the raw on our way to the sublime.

--Thomas Swick, travel editor of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel

Maun, Botswana

Afternoons, I teach schoolchildren to swim
in the flooded waters of the Tamalakane.
Two fingers support wiry bodies that sink
every chance they get.
“Arch your back! Spread out your limbs! Float! Kick! Paddle!”
Until one student travels under her own speed.
We collapse on the bank, gasping with sputtered water and glee.

Evenings, I swim downriver towards sunset.
A flamboyant lilac-breasted roller covers the sky.
The current muscles me onward, multiplies my strength.
No matter I cannot reach the sun. It reaches me.
My arms cut through the smooth-rolling water flaming before my stroke.

At river’s edge reeds grow with tender white shoots at their base.
Good to eat.
Water lilies perch on princess pads.
Waterskaters skim along the surface between legs of Jesus birds.

It's slow work swimming back against the current.
Fin and smooth slippery skin slide past my calf and knee.
The water parts before my hands. Sun sets.
My wet cheeks reflect the moon, rising.

Okavango Delta, Northern Botswana

We leave from a white hunter safari camp with a Motswana guide in a
Mokoro, that buoyant log burned and dug from tribal memory.
Tent, food, two passengers.
My hand leaves its own wake.

Day one
In knee shallow water, we wade.
If waist high, it's still okay.
The kindly hippo breathes bubbles in warning.
Our guide poles to one side.
You don't want the hippo carrying your boat on its back
before dropping down to swagger off with your arm in its mouth.

Day two
We're beyond settlements now.
A fellow poler hails us to show an abscess on his leg.
Medicine? No.
But we lance the pus and bind his wound.
Fancy-pants language not much use here. Damn!
I wish I were a nurse.

Day three
Our guide burns down a palm tree
to find and eat its heart.
We strip to bathe among reeds and mud.
I've never felt so clean as with
sand and ash for soap.

Day four
This place owns itself.
38 varieties of fish
47 varieties of animals
96 varieties of birds
143 varieties of plants.
None knows their names.
They just are.

Day five
Halfway to somewhere we turn.
We must return to nowhere, where we began.
Uncharted channels call.
We duck out of reach of that siren, Adventure.

Day six
Sky meets water.
We’ve exhausted
all conversational combinations
of Setswana, English, and body language.
We're together, in silence.
Clouds dive deep.

Day seven
It's a straight shot to camp.
Another straight shot to the hot sun showers.
Imported grub.
We empty boat.
The boat is empty.
Goodbye, water legs.
Hello, sand ruts.

Kalahari Desert, Springtime

Rainclouds gather and drop their load.
Delirious sands soak it up, roll it off.
Herbs, wildflowers and tufts of grass spring up...
beyond seeing.

Yesterday, a road.
Today, a river runs...
beyond fording.

We cook sausages over a quick, small fire;
Sip strong tea;
Warm ourselves over stories;
Touch stars on the piercing bright night;
And wait for The Arc to arrive.