Bike Overnight Aboard the Dahon Boardwalk

 

Loading up the Dahon Boardwalk for an overnight bike camping trip has been on my radar for a while now. With an upcoming vacation, it was one of my goals to access the viability of traveling by folding bike. 

The primary factors to figure out were baggage space and and bike handling. Could I carry enough gear to be comfortable plus ride without the added weight affecting steering?

I allowed two hours to pack my bike, loading the front purple bag several times, shifting straps, but eventually the solution was to add lightweight bulky items inside, tent poles and stakes in the rear sleeve, plus strapping the ground sheet on the exterior. I looped an extra webbed strap over the handlebars for extra support because all the weight is suspended from the handle bars. I'm happy that I had the foresight to add daisy chain webbing to the bag during construction as it allows maximum versatility. With the remaining portion of the tent compressed, it fit nicely behind the seatpost, snugged against the rack and attached with only one strap. I used a favorite short, lightweight duffel bag for most clothing and a sleeping quilt (more on that later), and stuffed the panniers with stove, pots, and remaining items wedged inside the panniers.

My husband and I set out from home - he, carrying his own gear - and crossed the causeway via the bike ferry, and cruised for the mostly flat 13 mile ride to Grand Isle State Park, a place I've camped at a few times. I was pleasantly surprised at how well the bike handled the weight. The front system didn't sway; the tent stayed in place and my legs cleared it fine. Obviously, the bike was slower, so riding in lower gears meant the bike handled like a touring machine!

We arrived at the campground without mishap, set up our tents, awkwardly as it turned out because the ground was basically all gravel. My husband used rocks to secure most of his free-standing tent while mine needed staking. Fortunately, I had brought new aluminum pegs that worked well enough, pounded with a rock. Next time, we'll ask for a grassy site!

We cooked dinner using both stoves. I had initial trouble with mine, a 25 year old Coleman screw onto gas cannister model, because it was in pieces, literally, when I collected gear the day before. But my son and I were able to put it back together, but didn't try it until camping the following day. With the second stove as backup, my Coleman functioned fine and we used both stoves for two meals.

It was a warm and humid evening, never dipping below 60F, so it wasn't an ideal climate to try a new sleeping arrangement, but my new Cosmic Quilt and repurposing a sleeping bag liner as a sheet, should be a better system for colder weather going forward. As it turns out, by trying to save weight with a super lightweight down bag which then was eventually supplemented with a liner, essentially a sack with drawstring opening, that in turn wasn't appropriate for my particular needs. I would often frantically throw off the covers to cool off and/or struggle to extract myself from the liner. The things we learn! The Cosmic Quilt was an inexpensive solution. It is synthetic and thicker, rated to colder temperatures, compressible, has a toe box to keep my feet warmer, and secures in place beneath my blow up mattress with adjustable and removable cords. I was able to toss and turn all night without the bag or liner sheet moving - a sleeping revelation! The quilt can also function, more or less, like a sleeping bag (because of the toe box) but, of course, without a zipper. This system should provide more warmth and versatility on future trips.

It rained early the next morning so I was thankful to have covered my front handle bar bag and panniers. But I began to think about rain and camping/traveling on a folding bike. How would I keep gear dry when traveling? The front bag, especially with external attachments and pockets, would be a challenge to cover. And the small panniers? What would I do, short of taking up internal space by stuffing items inside a plastic bag? The more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that a multiday camping journey, which may include inclement weather and the need to carry extra clothing, was not suitable on a folding bike with my particular set up. 

My September vacation, which now includes my husband (yay!), and the real probability of riding dirt roads to avoid the more heavily traveled routes, means I'll be taking my Clementine. But I have proven it's possible to bike tour on the Dahon Boardwalk. My specialized baggage might be better utilized for carrying extra clothing and if staying indoors, and if needed, would have the opportunity to dry out. So many possibilities for future adventures!

We arrived home safely and thankfully avoided a rain shower - a successful adventure.

Turkey - Priene and Hospitality in Altikum

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Thursday, November 10 - 33 miles

We awoke to the storm gods still unleashing their wrath, but placated that we had a roof over our heads. The pansiyon owners knocked and entered, distributing several breakfast dishes on our tiny round table. There was the ubiquitous soft, white bread, salty cubed cheese, butter, black olives, and a reddish jelly. I cupped my hands around a small glass of tea, served with traditional sugar cubes, but noticed a teapot was not provided. I'm afraid I offended the proprietors the evening before, refusing a second cup.

Priene theatre. Photo credit: Wikipedia

We set off amid showers, but they lightened and eventually stopped altogether by the time we reached Priene's ruins. Unlike Ephesus's crowded site - and as we would later learn - visitors are allowed to wander among the ancient stones, unhindered, without regulation or entrance fee. Especially in November, we had historic sites to ourselves. At Priene we hiked around toppled stone columns: they looked like large gear cogs. We climbed sandy paths between pine trees, emerging near tall pillars, and surprised upon a small amphitheater - my favorite – whose inner seating retained it's beautiful decoration, sculpted to resemble paws on chair arms and legs. And like other historic sites, Andy and I couldn't understand Greek writing, amply displayed. However, we'd come to understand our role: to observe, delight, wonder, and see, but keep pedaling. Ours was not an historical adventure, but to capture the flavor of a country; immersion was not possible with a whirlwind agenda.

We pumped across the flat, fertile Menderes River delta, again struggling into a headwind that seems to come out of nowhere, a constant nemesis in Turkey. Andy and I suspect it's payback for the tailwinds across Europe.

The colossal well-preserved Theater of Miletos rises to our left, appearing like a bleached stadium rather than snuggle into the hillside. But understandably, the complex was once a port, much like Priene's ruins, both were confluence communities in ancient times, before sea level receded, now leaving both ruins inland on the Menderes river plain. We made a cursory inspection, but decided to ride on. We longed to reach Altikum beach, a resort community we hoped housed hotels or pansiyons where we might stay a couple days.

Temple of Apollo in Didim, ripe for exploration. It will have to wait for the following day.

By day's end we filled panniers with groceries in Yenihisar and headed for Didim Altikum. As we headed down dusty street in Didum, a colossal temple appeared. Overgrown grasses, lack of fencing, all indications of untidiness or perhaps lack of money for upkeep, which was becoming the norm in Turkey. I longed to explore but the seaside beckoned. We promised to visit the following day.

Entering Altikum beach, the community looked deserted. We hadn't anticipated that every hotel would be closed, so we asked around. Pretty soon, a man smiles, ushers us to his hotel. He hefts my 75lb. bike up several stairs, before I can interrupt and help; he's shorter than I am. I have a lump in my throat; the Turkish hospitality never ceases to amaze me. He promises us a room in his friend's hotel - indeed interrupts the proprietor's dinner to make arrangements - then takes my bike up and down more stairs until we arrive at the building next door. Sheref, the hotel manager, opens the door for us. An hour later he brings hot cups of Nescafe to our room.

Sheref is a balding man who attends fix up projects during off-season at the hotel. Soft spoken, a nice gapped-tooth smile, he loves American rock and roll, even offering to go for a walk with us after dinner. Sheref speaks wonderful English, learning it from the hotel's summer crowd. After strolling in the humid evening air we relax on the rooftop, sipping more Nescafe, listening to his beloved rock and roll music, thankfully at a tolerable level. Sheref explains he may not manage the hotel the following year; he wants to help his brother farm cotton then sell at a market where he'll enjoy speaking with tourists. Eventually he bids us goodnight.

Turkey - Riding in Ataturk's Shadow

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Goat herds, wide valleys, and evidence of Western civilization's influence (note the Pepsi sign) are common sights as we navigate Turkey's back roads.

Wednesday, November 9 - 31 miles

We leave the pansiyon early, head south and are walloped with headwinds. However, it feels good to be back on our bicycles. It's funny, but home is on two wheels, wherever we roll. After I fix a flat, we keep our spirits up as rain showers – a first in Turkey – threatens to beat us down. A roadside shelter made of rushes becomes a lunch sanctuary. I surmise it's shelter for goats while Andy claims it's a makeshift produce stand.

Every small community proudly displays serious-looking portraits of Ataturk, father of Turkey. His prominent face, dark eyed with bushy brow, graces their currency, bus shelters, stamps, and posters in restaurants. He was a general in WWI, defending Constantinople (Istanbul) from Allied attempts pushing into northern Turkey. I also overheard that any verbal slander towards Ataturk, even today, is cause for being thrown in jail. As with other interesting trivia, I mentally note this information for further research upon our return home. The more we travel, the more I want to know.

I struggle up a long hill, already gaining 1000 feet, when the pain in my gut (our diet lacks sufficient fiber) causes me to dismount and push my bicycle the remaining yards up to the summit. I am in tears. The road surface is rough asphalt, wearing as much on my morale as my indigestion, which is only alleviated by walking.

We coast into a large agricultural valley planning to find accommodation so I can rest, but Soke is an overwhelming city of 50,000 citizens. A choking thick sand cloud rises house-high while horse drawn carts, automobiles, bicycles, scooters honk, whiz around us, dodging parked vehicles. We concentrate on keeping a straight line. “Hello, hello!” pedestrians shout. We smile and respond “Merhaba!” but I am not in the mood to stop and converse. We consult a few pansiyons but they are full or too expensive. I start to feel better so we head out of town; we will make do with tenting if needed.

Later the sky looks ominous. In Gullubache we haggle with a pansiyon owner and secure lodging, complete with breakfast for 400,000 Lira. It is near Priene, another historic site. Over dinner we discuss our coastal route towards Greece's Isle of Rhodes and wonder about current news: Turkey and Greece are at serious odds over fishing territory. Turkey wants to expand their rights to 6 miles offshore, which impacts Greek islands situated close to Turkey. It seems like an age old problem, this animosity between the Greeks and the Turks. We can only hope this recent escalation is only verbal. Rain fell while we prepared dinner and thunder and lightening continued all night. I was happy to be indoors.

Turkey - Saint John's Basilica Ruins and Buying Turkish Pants

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Saint John's basilica ruins. Photo credit: Wikipedia

Tuesday, November 8

The morning was warmer, windless, and pure sunshine greeted us as we set out on foot. Days off the bike are adventures in themselves. We aren't content to rest with a book. Rather, we take advantage of more exploration and revel in walking or hiking; this time we aim for high ground, intent on visiting another early Christian site, and discover we are its sole visitors.  

Atop a Selcuk hill stands the ruins of Saint John's Basilica. It was constructed in the 5^th or 6^th century over his burial site. The Turkish government is working on excavation and renovations and – as we are beginning to learn, due to current economy – many projects are funded by American foundations. In it's time the cathedral was enormous, 7^th compared with today's cathedrals. Only the basic framework remains: column bases and some floor tiles, are exposed so travelers can imagine the once massive structure. And, as Ephesus's importance as cultural landmark grows – it was an early Asia minor Christian capitol, major center for cultural and medical sciences – so does tourist interest in the region. Hopefully, an infusion of capital will continue to improve these historic sites.

Before returning to the pansiyon, Andy and I step inside Efesus's museum. Like many historic sites on our journey, the most precious excavated relics are preserved from further decay by placing them indoors. Larger than life statuary from the Temple of Artemis are on display.

At lunch we sit on the pansiyon's rooftop. We ask Anna and Daryl about trekking in Nepal and also meet a young Scottish cyclist. He'd stored his bike in Marmaris and bused to Selcuk. He's on course for Syria, Jordan, and Israel. It's a reminder that we are on our own separate journeys and it's a flip of the coin whether we cross paths.

Modeling new pants (traditional style is below) with a Turkish tailor.

Afterward we set off again, perform necessities: purchase stamps, phone card, ATM withdrawal, pick up more food, then return to a tailor shop I'd previously seen. Various colorful pantaloons hang outside the shop above the sidewalk. I'd fallen in love with these flowing pants adorning full-figured Turkish women. The unique feature of these pants, I would later learn, is a gusseted crotch that hangs to the knee, adjusting to women of any size. Between the patterned colors, draped material, the whole effect is gyspy-like. If there was any memento of our travels in Turkey that I desired, and could afford and eventually mail home, it was to own a pair of these special pants.

My drawing of common Turkish pants.

Andy's drawing of typical Turkish tea service.

I choose a couple patterns I liked, priced at 250,000 lira (7.50 USD) and step inside the tiny shop, searching for a dressing room. I planned to bargain the price, once I determined the fit was okay. With the 3 of us squeezed inside, the shop itself is approximately 12' x 20', just enough space for two sewing machines, a counter, a few shelves, and three chairs. But before business takes place, the tailor summons tea from an adjacent restaurant. A moment later, a man delivers a tray with three clear glasses, spoons, and sugar cubes. The tailor spoke some English. We chit-chat. He is Yugoslavian born and specializes in custom pantaloons. Also, the restaurant owner sometimes performs the call-to-prayer worship we hear amplified from mosques.

My prized Turkish pants, dreamy and drapey. The colors go with
 many solid color tops. Twenty years later, I still wear these 

With our business transaction completed with help from our dictionary, the tailor takes my arm and leads me behind the counter. He is all smiles. He tugs at the waistline of my skirt. I glance at Andy across the counter. He sits on chair by the door. It's then that I realize I am in for the entire experience. I must have the pants. The shop is empty except for the three of us. I remove my skirt.

I am standing in my t-shirt and underwear. The proprietor helps me into the garments, gently pulling the elastic ankles into place. He has me stand and inspects the pants. Indeed over the next hour, I repeat this process as he takes in the side seams on both pants. We continue to sip tea, smiling. I grew comfortable in underwear and t-shirt as the tailor completed alterations. The tailor was obviously proud of his craft. He showed us his license, tacked to the wall. After the first few minutes, I realize how foolish I'd been to question any improper conduct on his part.

By the time he finished, I didn't have the heart to negotiate the cost of the pants, as is the expected custom. He insists we take his photograph and I happily oblige. I'm glad I did. Later, the picture would remind me of a much-treasured experience.

Turkey - A Visit to Ephesus

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Sanctuary built upon Virgin Mary's last resting place. Photo credit: imaginative traveller

Monday, November 7

Included in the hostel accommodation, the proprietor's son, Harry, drives us plus another couple to Virgin Mary's House then to Ephesus historical site.

We walked around a one story stone structure claimed to be Mary's last resting place. Rebuilt in the early 1900s, the dark edifice is non-descript, however, it's appropriate for Mary's humble lifestyle. There is strong evidence that she actually lived in Ephesus. Jesus placed the care of his mother to Saint John, whose basilica rests on a hilltop in Selcuk. Plus a woman in the 1800s had a vivid vision, pinpointing the exact location. 

Amphitheater. Photo credit: Ephesus

Library. Photo credit: Ephesus

Ephesus is the main attraction. It's a well preserved city of buildings climbing up a hillside, once the heart of a thriving commercial seaport. We have to use our imaginations to picture a city perched on water; today the Aegean Ocean is approximately 5 kilometers due west. We walk down a mosaic road, which leads to a surprisingly intact 1,500 seat amphitheater. It's a veritable outdoor museum. Again, we tag along with an English speaking tour, a practice that reveals more historical information than otherwise gleaned from a guide book kindly loaned from our pansiyon. A tall columned library front remains, lending scale to this Roman city.

Latrines at Ephesus. Photo credit: Ephesus

Of particular amusement was a long row of toilets, a series of holes in a stone bench. We learned that a musician serenaded the users. It was also a place to swap gossip. I mused about how the Western world has placed so much emphasis on privy privacy that a group “effort” paints a comical picture. And of course, Daryl (other hostel traveler) and Andy posed on the toilets, clothed, but quite literally cheek to cheek while Anna and I took pictures.

Back in town we bargained for produce and picked up other essentials. Our diet is sometimes a struggle. Bread is white. We consume yogurt, tahini spread, feta and Turkish cheese (I believe a mild sort of feta), fruit, and vegetables. On the way by a park we greet a man who's helping himself to a satsuma tree. He smiled and tossed two oranges to us. It's that type of friendliness that defines the Turkish people.

Turkey - Coastal Road to Selçuk

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Photo credit: Intrepid Berkeley Explorer

43 miles - Sunday, November 6

Leaving Sigacik we continue pedaling southward along the coast under intense gusts, like the previous day, but we are lucky the weather is mostly a tailwind. Not for the first time I am thankful to wear prescription sunglasses because, had I tried contacts again, quite literally the dust would've stopped me in my tracks.

As we pass Doganbey and Gumuldur the villages are a sea of white-washed walls and red tiled roofs. Skeletal structures of unfinished homes overwhelm the hillsides above us. When they're complete it's not hard to imagine Izmir's occupants, easily owning a second home on the Aegean coast. 

Photo credit: Turkey Travel Planner

Like yesterday, smiling faces greet us from the roadside. It's a mix of women and men riding donkeys, the women especially bedecked in colorful wide legged pants plus headscarves, covering all but their black eyes. Again, we smile and say Merhaba and they respond in kind. Children are especially friendly; they run towards us and wave, often addressing us first.

We are learning that kindness is ingrained in the Turkish people. A youngster or young man will escort us to the post office, a restaurant, food store – whatever we request. And not expect anything in return. Their attentiveness tugs at my heart. I express my gratitude with a smile and nod. After our months of travel across Europe, Turkey is a country like no other.

The coastal road weaves in and out of villages high above the sea. There are herds of sheep and goats wandering rocky hills, their bells clanging like music on the breeze. Shepherds, all wrapped up against a cold wind, often appear near the road, tending animals among small groves of Satsuma oranges, lemons, and limes. One man tethers two Holsteins in a tiny pasture to let the cows happily munch on a pile of oranges.

Andy and I treat ourselves to lunch at a restaurant. It's nice to get inside out of a chilling wind. For the equivalent of 3.00 USD we eat pizza, salad and drinks for two. Afterward, we are given two satsuma oranges, which are very sweet and yummy without seeds. Later we spy locals selling oranges, sitting on the graveled shoulder, each with a single basket of fruit.

Late afternoon we cycle a winding road and below us are coves of sheltered beaches. Houses are clustered, often with a rust colored tennis or basketball court right at beach level. Another cove reveals voices drifting upward. A person pulls a looped net towards shore – a gill net, Andy says.

Beyond Claros the road flattens. It is a floodplain where the Menderes River empties to the sea. By now, I'm cold, My knees are tired and tingly. It's late. Turning inland, the fading light glimmers on Selcuk, our destination, it's glow like a flame against tan hills.

As we pedal the remaining five kilometers, we can see the Ephesus ruins, an amphitheater curving a short flight back from the main highway as if molded into the earth. The site is a must see, as suggested by tourist information and the women from Izmir we'd met aboard the ferry. Apparently they're the best preserved ancient buildings next to the Acropolis in Athens

Pedestrian path outside Selcuk. Photo credit: Travelvice Snapshots by Craig Heimburger

As the traffic increases, Andy suggests an alternate parallel road, one that turns out to be lined with the protective arms of olive groves, were it the heat of summer, but for us this old road, cracked, and dirt in places is utilized by walkers and farm equipment. We share the road with a couple tractors, each pulling a wagon load of women wearing the classic garb: floral wide-legged trousers beneath long shirts, their heads wrapped in cloth. They reminded me of the bobble-headed figurines of my childhood. Beyond the rumbling wagons, it was our first glimpse of cotton fields, bursting with moth-like downy fiber.

Welcoming courtyard of ANZ Hostel. Photo credit: ANZ Hostel

We keyed on recommended accommodation, a pansiyon called Australia-New Zealand. The name itself drew us in, and coupled with low cost, promising English speaking proprietors and travelers, it was enough to keep us spinning wheels long past when we'd normally take a break. Without the task to locate shelter, a cloud lifted for today at least, it had allowed us to fully appreciate the landscape.

So it was with smiles that we come upon the pansiyon's sign on the near side of Selcuk, and after getting lost only once, bumping our wheels on a dusty cobbled street, that we pushed our bicycles up a brick-lined entryway and were welcomed into the hostel's plant filled courtyard. It was an oasis, surrounded by a 3 story yellow building, shaped like a horseshoe.

Turkey - Inquisitive and Friendly

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Loud speakers on mosque blare muslim call to prayer.
Photo credit: Islamization Watch

Friday, November 4

The sunrise call-to-prayer wails out of loudspeakers at 6 a.m. awakening us from a peaceful sleep. The pansiyon was quiet and comfortable, but Andy and I get up, anxious to walk around Cesme. We eat the last of our food cache – American style cereal – and pay for another night's lodging.

Cesme is a fine introduction to Turkey. It's a tourist region; proprietors speak English. Andy and I wanted to visit Turkey because of it's eastern influence, archeological sites, Istanbul sounds like an exotic city, and because, frankly, we loved the name. However we didn't have an itinerary. We inquire at the tourist office and are rewarded with a wealth of information. Next errand: withdraw 3,000,000 lira (95.00 USD) at a bank. Andy and I chuckle at the huge number – 1 million of any currency sounds extreme – but again we are advised to exchange as little as possible. With 100% annual inflation – not good for the local economy – but our dollars should go far.

Turkey is a vast country. After talking with an American couple that spent 3 weeks bike touring western Turkey, we compare ferry rides; they offer suggestions, notes on culture, etc., and confirm that travel is inexpensive. They also reconfirm recent campground closures, but highly suggest pansiyons or bungalows.

Andy and I decide to spend our three weeks heading southward. We understand that Greek and Roman antiquities are better preserved this side of the Aegean.  

We are pedaling western Turkey, south of Izmir. Photo credit: Free World Maps

50 miles - Saturday, November 5

Andy and I get up early and eat cold breakfast: fruit, yogurt, bread, washed down with camp stove -cooked coffee. We leave Cesme a little after 8 a.m., excited and well rested after two days off the bikes. The town is waking up, though slower than on a weekday.

As we roll through town, men stare at us in disbelief. We presume that riding a bicycle is not common, probably less so because we're foreigners. It goes both ways. Turkey was the first country where Andy and I wanted to be better prepared. Filthy Greek campgrounds and ill will towards the Turkish people soured our Grecian travel, propelling us eastward to Turkey. Perhaps that's why it took us longer to acclimatize in Cesme. We needed a safe and interesting route, local currency, lodging, and where to buy food, all details we wanted sorted out beforehand. On the other hand, we remind ourselves that we bike tour to explore and one shouldn't get overly hung up on logistics.

Curious Turkish children.
Photo credit: flickriver

A strong wind buffets our loaded bikes. It's tough, whipping from the side, then a stiff headwind. It's easily 15-25 m.p.h. Outside of Cesme the road is far from pleasant: narrow, without shoulders, rough, with moderate traffic, zipping to and from Izmir. I'm scared, fighting tears, trying to hold a straight line as the tempest shudders, flapping the drying laundry secured to our panniers. I have mixed feelings. People wave from their automobiles, from houses along the route, especially children, yet truck traffic regularly blows us onto sandy shoulders. By 2:30 we are still on the same tack, struggling, frustrated, and tired. I haven't uttered a word in two hours.

Amidst the long tedious miles we take a break from the relentless wind. We crouch in front of a Mosque against a waist-high stone wall, eating lunch, drinking bottled water (suggested by tourist office, though tap water is safe, but smells funny) finally sheltered from whirling dust. Two young boys come by, bend over with hands beneath their chins, grinning wide-eyed and innocently at us, speaking Turkish. I respond, “Merhaba,” which means “hello”, the only Turkish word I know. I smile. The boys hang out for bit, inquisitive, then wave and are gone.

And then, we turn off the main highway. A simple 90 degree turn toward Ephesus and the wind is at our back. Exhaustion turns to exhilaration. We sail up and down dry hills, without a care. Laughing. 21 kilometers to Seferihisar fly by. A guy on a moped slows down and strikes up a conversation in English. He's an example of a handsome, black-haired and dark-eyed, lean Turkish man. We pullover and talk, avoiding the hazard of conversing at our new “fast pace”. He hopes we can provide him with a pen pal; he's 19 years old and studying English in school. We take down his name and address, delighted by his friendliness, and press on.

Sigacik, small fishing village near Seferihasir. Photo credit: Wikipedia

By 5:15 p.m. we roll into a tiny fishing village and take a 250,000 lira (7.50 USD) offer of a room in a pansiyon. Once again it's bliss to sleep in a bed. We squeeze our wide loads into a hallway and surprisingly past another mountain bike with panniers. Another bike tourist!

In the room, I hear the wind howling outside. Andy is bathing in the now familiar shower-over-toilet arrangement, common to this part of the world. It saves on having a separate shower stall. Best to lower seat and lid, otherwise seat becomes a wet mess. Later, we relax, rehash the day, pour over maps, hoping the roads are less intense the further we retreat from Izmir, 3^rd largest city in Turkey.

Greece/Turkey - Leaving, Culture Overload

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Aboard a small Turkish ferry.

Thursday, November 3

Gusty winds woke me periodically. I looked to make sure my belongings were still between me and the wall, turned over, tucked the loose ends of the sleeping bag beneath my legs and settled down again. A cooler breeze lifted my bangs. I realized we were somewhere out in the open Aegean Sea.

At 4 a.m. voices announced in four languages that we'd arrived at Chios. Andy and I rolled from the boat. It was too early for shops to open. We made coffee, ate cereal as the Turkish sunrise glowed orange-red, revealing a flat landscape, ethereal, alluring. An unknown country captivates us – Turkey even more so because it would be the eastern most country in Europe for us and our first experience with Muslim religion.

We spent the day on errands: buying food, round-trip tickets to Cesme, Turkey, locating a Greek-English translation book (long overdue as we'll return to Greece later), and to our surprise are unable to convert Greek drachmas to Turkish currency. The tourist office frowns on the money, “it's worthless”, and recommends leaving it behind upon our return.

Since arriving on Greek soil, it was easy to overlook the first disparaging remarks against the Turkish people, but unfortunately animosity runs deep, often spilling over into conversation. I imagine it's difficult to let go of ingrained hostilities, fueled from early Ottoman Empire strife, inflamed during Greek independence, to current Cyprus war and disputed fishing territory. As U.S. citizens we've been insulated from war for nearly 200 years on our own soil, whereas in parts of Europe it bubbles beneath the surface, never so evident as on our Grecian travels.

As we go through Greek custom formalities, I recount to Andy a run-in with a overly friendly Greek man. I scribbled in our journal, passing the time while Andy was away on errand. The man had been friendly at first, but eventually it becomes evident he wants more than conversation. I point at the ring on my hand, which didn't dissuade his intentions, until I raise my voice and insist he leave me alone. Afterward, I kept glancing over my shoulder, waiting for my husband's return.

Cesme harbor, Turkey. Photo credit: Ferryto.ie

The Turkish ferry had arrived by 11 a.m., but sat in the harbor for several hours before it's application was accepted. It seems par for the course in Greek-Turkish relations. Fortunately, we'd been forewarned. We arrive at 3.pm., pay $12.00 each in Greek port taxes, and board the small ferry boat after 4 p.m.

The captain is a short, smiley, gray-haired man who, after helping lift bikes inside, shook hands in a fun way. I copied him, dancing around with our fingers. We laughed. He welcomed us on board. No need for language translation.

Andy and I sit top-side, befriending an American lady who has resided in Izmir for fourteen years. She was accompanied by a French and New Zealand women. Every 3 months the trio spends a day in Greece, applies for another 3-month visa, pays requisite $20.00 Turkish tax, and get their passports re-stamped, repeating the process when necessary. The American vows that living in Turkey is Asia's best kept secret.

During our conversation, the captain appears bearing a tray full of saucers holding tiny glasses of sweet black tea. I smile at the captain. I am overwhelmed. After he leaves, I exclaim my wonderment to the ladies. They tell us the Turkish people are very hospitable and love to care for you. The ladies ease our transition with helpful tidbits: Islam is primary religion, replacing Christianity in the Byzantine area; call to prayer occurs several times a day; only men go to Mosque; women pray at home. Campgrounds are probably closed, but suggests pansiyons (pensions) which are very cheap, approximately 10.00 USD. Turkish lira fluctuates on a daily basis so don't change more than 100.00 at a time.

The boat pitches sideways across the ocean rollers. In spite of the short hour ride I grow nauseous and concentrate on the horizon for the remainder of our journey. The sun sets as we enter Cesme's port. Islam's call to prayer sounds like a buzzing chant, emits from loudspeakers atop 2 or 3 mosques, enveloping the small city. I am excited, nervous, frightened and mesmerized. I am unprepared when a shipmate, only ten feet from me, drops anchor; the chain lowers as a deafening rattle, echoing, and reverberating throughout the wooden hull. I jump and nearly let out a scream.

Andy and I pass through customs, pay the 20.00 per person fee – new practice as of October 1 – from our U.S. currency stashed in neck pouches. Our travel companions point us toward lodging before heading off to Izmir. In the dark we observe shops are open with very few pedestrians. Andy inquires at one hotel, but 60-65.00 USD is too steep. Later we learn the hotel's historical significance, providing overnight accommodation to caravanserai’s many years ago. A helpful teenager directs us to a pansion. Sure enough, after checking the room with queen-size bed, private bath, balcony, priced at 250,000 lira (7.50 USD) we accept and count ourselves lucky. The young man bows, refusing any token of appreciation other than our smiling gratitude.

Before relaxing however, we must go out, locate a travel agency/exchange business to convert American Express travelers checks into local currency to pay for room, food, and a few days of travel. Again, we are offered tea, but respectfully decline, preferring to retreat to the pansiyon. I am happy to learn that I am not the only one who suffers from culture shock. Andy, normally upbeat and adaptable, also needs time to adjust and regroup to a strange, intriguing country – especially thrust ashore in darkness. We collapse in bed by 9 p.m., mentally exhausted, though excited to explore Cesme in daylight, prepared to venture on bikes the following day.

Greece - Pireaus Bound (Three-Ferry Day)

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42 miles - Wednesday, November 2

We set off by 8:30, knowing we have a busy day ahead. Congested roads lie between us and the busy seaport of Pireaus.

An hour later Andy and I are at the 100-year old Corinth Canal. In the distant haze a silvery elevated bridge carries most of the traffic. I slow as we approach the small one lane bridge reserved for local automobiles and pedestrians. It looks hazardous: we must ride narrow wood between steel rails. I try to negotiate the bridge, but I can feel my loaded bicycle slip sideways and I immediately dismount. Andy and I walk the rest of the way.

We are intrigued. Up the channel a huge ship's bow comes into view. It was then we spied signage indicating the bridge lowers underwater, cautioning travelers to slick travel conditions. An operator at the booth explains it's the only bridge like it in the world. It's too good to be true. We hang out for half an hour, watch the bridge descend, slapping the aqua waters before it's ripple image fades. It submerges 8 feet. A tugboat tows a medium-sized container ship past. I was thrilled to be privy to this man-made marvel.

It's a perfect sun-drenched Grecian day. We follow the waterfront National Road once again, pedaling by a stinky oil refining area. Sharp cliffs fall to the ocean. Sandy-colored mountains rise beyond the pollution.

We guess our way to a ferry that will bring us a short ways to the mainland – only tourist-oriented signs are in English. As we've discovered, even banks and post office lines aren't bilingual. We'll wait in one line only to find we need to stand in another to make a VISA transaction. I find the alphabet and language a daunting challenge.

In the bustling city docks of Salamina, white houses stair step up Perama's hillsides, our intended destination across the bay. From there we'll ride 10 k to Pireaus – sure to be crazy and noisy. Instead, we get lucky. A small ferry is docked. The blue paint on wooden stern is chipped from footsteps. The bald-headed captain, his last strands of hair a mere formality, hefts the front of my bike while I guide the back end, lowering our heavy bikes inside the cabin.

Andy and I climb to the deck for the 45 minute boat ride. Our tiny ferry putters by cruise liners docked for maintenance, rusty-hulled container ships, and tugs lugging barges. I smile. I think of my father and his love for anything marine-related. I picture his wide grin, his thinning hair whipped in the warm breeze, much like the ferry captain's.

I admire our captain's skills as he maneuvers into a long harbor, past Navy ships, a red and yellow Spiderline hydroplane boat, and good-sized white ferries to Greek islands, of which we would later embark.

On land again, my legs wobble for a few blocks, still compensating for a rocking boat. Pireaus is as expected for a busy seaport. My stomach tightens – signs, fishy smells, honking horns, and crowds walking, are all perils to two-wheeled travel. We expect Athens – only a few kilometers further – to be as hectic when we return in a month to fly to London in preparation for Asian travel.

We purchase tickets for an evening ferry to Chios, an island near the Turkish coast where another ferry will take us the last leg to Turkey. We get dinner food and roll the bikes on board two hours before departure. We are directed to put them at one end below deck. We lock them between two beastly smelling diesel trucks.

It was interesting to note the goods being ferried to the islands: house plants, rolled up carpets, vegetables, grain sacks, furniture, soda (Coke is king!), toilet paper, and an 8-foot stack of mailbags. Everything was packed tightly. Truck tops rested against black donut-shaped bumpers, cushioning vehicles should brakes let loose. Later, when we went to retrieve our bikes there was no way to see or reach the bike until half the trucks unloaded. They were safe and snug, locked against gray rails.

On board, above on the open deck, we lug backpacks and grocery sacks. It was our first opportunity to observe Turkish families, swaddled in colorful printed loose cotton clothing. They were already asleep on blankets upon the hard floor. We step quietly past them.

While we wait for the boat to move Andy and I perch on two orange life jacket containers and make our Greek salad. We watch a hazy sunset. We are excited. The day had held many surprises, not to mention the upcoming visit to another country. We'd pedaled 42 miles yet with the help of 3 ferries we'd go 300 miles by the time the ferry docks in Chios.

The boat rumbles beneath us and begins to move from port. Like the ship that brought us from Italy to Greece, this is another overnight ferry, this time traversing the Aegean Sea. We pull out bedding, position ourselves head to head atop life jacket boxes, and plan to get some sleep.

Greece - Pedaling a Rugged Coastline to Almiri

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Andy and I climb the rugged hills near Nea Epidavros. Panaramio photos are copyright of their owners. Photographer: thsallas [2013-07-28]

27 miles - Tuesday, November 1

A pleasant morning. Cooler than usual, but clear and damp. Free camping felt liberating – and though we lacked a hot shower – it was unexpectedly spiritual and simple. I wake to glistening dew under the olive trees.

Andy and I coasted the remaining kilometers to a rugged coastline. We head north. Sweat pours down my knees as we ascend one 5 k incline plus another more grueling rise. It's brimming with beauty. It reminds me of Texas hill country: dusty red soil, pine trees. Herds of goats roam in the distance; bells chiming like faraway music. An occasional store or cafe sends Greek music filtering outside. I'm pleased the local people have escaped the Rock and Roll craze.

By noon time we descend 1000 feet to touristy Almiri. Signs advertise several campsites; we choose the first available one. This one is adequate, and importantly – we can reach Pireas docks tomorrow, allowing island transport plus possible ferry connection with Turkey.

Almiri Beach. Panaramio photos are copyright of their owners. Photographer Kiriakst

After an obligatory swim – I can't pass up any opportunity to dip in saltwater – we stock up on food and retreat to our site. Across the bay Andy and I study a relatively flat coastline – tomorrow's route – but more congested. The only unspoiled view from the beach is an oil refinery; stacks spew brown clouds. We are the solitary campers until a small R.V. pulls in at 7 p.m.

After a failed attempt at locating an English newspaper we strike up a conversation with the campground host, delighted he speaks our language. It's a chance to probe for any information that might aid our travel and in return we happily answer his questions. A phrase that is a common remark in Greece and throughout Europe: “Americans drive big cars.”

A few more facts about Greece:

• half the population lives in Athens
• like the U.S., population is in decline. Families are having fewer children.
• Albanians, Turks, Africans illegally live in the country
• young men must complete a 1-1.5 year military tour
• visitors mainly arrive from France and Italy. Germans used to drive when Yugoslavia wasn't experiencing internal conflicts.
• this campground sees approximately 15 bicycle tourists per year, mainly from the U.S.
• young men learn English and young woman learn French as a second language

Greece - Nafplio and Epidavros

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20 miles - Monday, October 31

Andy and I had hoped to bypass busy roads between Corinth and Pireas – boarding a boat from southern Peloponnese directly to Pireas and from there ferry to Greek islands. However, information was poor and we've little choice but to close the distance by bike. Train service is apparently four times slower than the bus. But as with any misinformation, it's often an opportunity. We can return north by a scenic coastal route.

Andy and I ride around picturesque Nafplio. A tiny castle-like structure rests offshore, nearly covering a rocky island. Once protecting the harbor, the building now houses a restaurant. A small open hulled boat is anchored between island and shore; it's image is reflected in calm water, like glass, under a perfect blue sky.

 

We spend the morning, enchanted, riding a walkway around a peninsula then visit the restored 17^th century Palamidi Fort. It's the prominent feature, situated on the crest of a hill above Nafplio. Built by the Venetians, then captured by the Turks, the Greeks gained control in the 1800s. The approach to the high-walled fortress is by climbing 999 stone steps – no easy feat. The ascent is slow and steep, but thankfully in the shade. After each flight we take a break, admiring views of the broad bay, red-roofed Nafplio, and a public beach whose aqua waters and growing number of bathers, and most especially enjoying the ocean, looked more and more appealing the further uphill we went. At the top Andy and I roam the ramparts. Without rails or any safety features of any kind, it's a bit spooky. There is a fine line between peering over the edge and experiencing vertigo, so I remain safely back. I go week kneed though, as Andy gazes downward, unafraid of heights.

Back with the bikes, we eat lunch and pedal a long hill, ascending for 26 kilometers. Rising for 1,000 feet we observe eucalyptus and palm trees give way to rocky hillsides studded in pine and olive groves. Passing by one long white building, the tart smell of olives drifts upwards along with us. I wondered whether they're pressing oil or soaking olives for later consumption.

I prefer riding beside olive trees. The thin leaves provide a little shade, are fragrant, spacious underneath, and are a last resort should we need a place to pitch our yellow tent. All the more comforting because most campgrounds close today.

By mid-afternoon we reach the piney heights of Epidavros, a sanctuary of Esculapeus, god of health. Several temples stand in ruin; only large stones outline each building on dry, cracked earth, covering several acres. Yet, a restored amphitheater, seating 14,000 is exquisitely beautiful, Above the seating are rocky, flat summits and pine trees; the structure was deliberately built into the side of the hill, taking advantage of natural acoustics. I climb to higher seats while Andy stands on stage. His voice is sharply magnified, sending goosebumps up my arms.

Afterward,we begin a deserved downhill stretch and start looking for a place to camp. Andy and I turn down a dirt road near an old stone building. We don't really know if the locals understand our intent but when asked to camp they respond with “no problem”, which is good enough for us. We make dinner and are halfway through making our usual tomato sauce and pasta when a maroon-colored Jeep pulls up. A woman and man get out. First they walk away from us but then double back. I was nervous, wondering if we misunderstood; these two were not the same folks who gave us permission to stay. Andy waves and smiles, continuing to stir our dinner pot. I jumped up to try and explain our presence. The woman turns to her companion who speaks a little English. He confirms that it's all right to stay. Interestingly enough, he tells us his grandmother lives or lived in Chicago – I wasn't sure which. He and his mom had come by to check the olives. Fifteen more days until harvest.

A few days ago, someone assured us the Greeks are laid back. Tonight certainly proves it. Without further worry we set up the tent on sloping ground, crawl inside, and read by candlelight. I am content and delighted to sleep under the sprawling olive trees.