Our first destination was a Mass and Blessing in Richer, Manitoba.  Richer is about an hour’s drive south and east of St. Boniface.  Formerly a community whose life was sustained by the timber industry, many of its historic buildings are timbered by massive beams and joists, hand-hewn and lovingly set.  Today, the timber industry in the area is fallow.  In fact, the prairie flat countryside belies that there was a timber industry, for what trees exist here are predominantly aspen, birch, and fir.

The church, Enfant-Jésus (Infant Jesus) dominates the town as the tallest building (not unlike many 19th century rural churches  throughout Canada and United States).  It is very attractive in its simplicity.

Enfant-Jesus, Richer, Manitoba (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier, secretary of the Enfant-Jésus Heritage Site )

Interior,Enfant-Jesus Church, Richer, Manitoba

Enfant-Jesus Church, interior as seen from santuary, Richer, Manitoba

Assembly for Mass, October 23, 2011, Enfant-Jesus, Richer, Manitoba (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier)

Archbishop Albert LeGatt preaching, October 23, 2011, Enfant-Jesus, Richer, Manitoba (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier)

Blessing of Monument, October 23, 2011, Enfant-Jesus Cemetery, Richer, Manitoba (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier)

Fr. Rick Ginther assisting Archbishop LeGatt in blessing the monument (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier)

Archbishop LeGatt blessing the cemetery grounds (photo courtesy of Marcel Gauthier)

Looking toward Lake Winnipeg, Albert Beach, Archbishop's Cabin

Exterior, Archbishop's Cabin, Albert Beach, Manitoba

Interior, Archbishop's Cabin, Albert Beach, Manitoba

St. Francis bids us farewell

First destination: the Canadian Mint. 

Royal Canadian Mint, Winnipeg

The Museum of St. Boniface (The Grey Nuns' Convent)

 One of the more remarkable features of the museum is the display of structural members (timber) which form the walls, beams and joists.  The building becomes, in actuality, an integral part of the museum!

Museum of St. Boniface, actual framing and beams displayed

Diorama, cart used in fur trade by French voyageurs

Blacksmithing shop and tools, Museum of St. Boniface

Loom, St. Boniface Museum

Devices for preparing yarn for loom

Spinning Wheel

Metis Kitchen, St. Boniface Museum

Metis Food prepartion area, St. Boniface Museum

St. Meinrad Archabbey Church and School of Theology

We piled into his car, and  drove to the Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral of the Archeparchy of Winnipeg, hoping it would be open.  Alas, as so many center-city churches, it was locked tight; and it being Saturday, there was no one around — the parking lot was empty save for us.

Sts. Vladimir and Olga Cathedral, Archeparchy of Winnipeg

(You may have noticed by now that there are three — count them — three “Archdioceses” in Winnipeg!  “Archeparchy” is the eastern rites’ name for “archdiocese”.  If there are three Archdioceses, then there are three archbishops, three cathedrals!  It is a very unusual situation, which I simply wanted to point out; I will refrain from exhaustive explanation of how this works!)

We moved on to our appointed activity — a tour of the Bishop Velychkovsky Martyr’s Shrine at St. Joseph Ukrainian Catholic Church.

Vasyl Veychkovsky was born in 1903 as a citizen of the Russian Empire under Csar Nicholas II.  He experienced the tumult of World War I, the Russian Revolution, and the rise of the Soviet Union.  He “grew up in a priestly family in Western Ukraine”, a member of the Ukrainian Catholic Church — an Eastern Rite Church in communion with Rome (thus, “Catholic“).  “As a deacon, he joined the Redemptorists in 1924.  The following year he was ordained a priest and began his missionary work, first by teaching in the Minor Seminary, and then preaching parish missions in Volyn and Halychyna, Ukraine”.

When the Germans invaded the Soviet Union in 1941,  a number of Ukrainians (Eastern Europeans of Slavic origin, not Russian) threw off allegiance to the soviet and initially welcomed the Germans.  “At the end of the Second World War” with the defeat of the Axis powers, “…a fierce persecution” under Josef Stalin began, in part as punishment of the Ukrainian people.  “Father Vasyl was arrested when he refused to deny his faith.  His harsh sentence of death by firing squad was later commuted to ten years in Soviet Labor camps” (what Alexander Solzhenitsyn called the “Gulag archipelago” — work camps above the Arctic Circle). 

“Returning to Ukraine in 1955, Father Velychkosky worked clandestinely in the illegal underground Catholic Church”.  In 1963, when the Ukrainian Catholic bishop was released from gulag and deported”, he “secretly ordained…” Father Velychkosky ”a bishop in a Moscow hotel.  Soon after (1969)”, Bishop Velychkosky ”was arrested.  His three-year sentence was filled with severe physical, chemical, electrical and psychological torture”.  Never denying his faith or the Church, when released in 1972 ”he was exiled from Ukraine”.  Ailing from years of torture and deprivation, he was invited by the Archbishop of Winnipeg to come to Canada.  There he traveled, taught, and wrote for the short time he had remaining in earthly life.  He died in June, 1973, and was buried in Winnipeg.  Even then he was considered a martyr for the faith.  (Quoted sections are from the text of a brochure produced by and for the Shrine, www.bvmartyrshrine.com)

We were met at the door of St. Joseph Church by our guide, a young university student who works for the Shrine as assistant to the director.  Speaking in English lightly accented by her Ukrainian origins, she lead us through the Shrine by way of the Church.  Her explanations granted us access to the life of Bishop Velychkovsky (more detailed than above!).  More importantly, she also shared the history of the work of the Shrine’s staff.   Through ardent transcription of hand-written documents about and by the Bishop, lengthy summer travel to Ukraine and Russia to gain access to KGB documents, personal interviews of survivors (priests, nuns, laity) who knew the Bishop, and searches in Ukraine and Canada for objects which the Bishop had used in his ministry, they have pieced together a burgeoning archive of materials for their beloved Bishop and Martyr.

The Shrine is beautiful in its simplicity.

Interior, St. Joseph's Ukrainian Catholic Church, Winnipeg

Ukrainian Martyrs plaque, St. Joseph Ukrainian Catholic Church, Winnipeg

Icon of Blessed Vasyl Velychkovsky, Bishop and Martyr

Shrine, with sarcophagus of Blessed Vasyl Velychkovsky, Bishop and Martyr

Our guide continued her informative and faith-filled explanations, showing us personal relics of Blessed Vasyl, from vestments, to the socks in which he was originally buried, to a personal manuscript which he was urged to write before he died.  The wonder which came over a guide as she spoke and explained was moving; this was especially true when she described the process of disinterment of the original wooden casket which, in just days after exhumation, it was disintegrating but the body of Blessed Vasyl was found to be intact!  

His remains are now sealed in a sarcophagus made of metal, encased under glass, as shown above.   

While our guide left us momentarily to retrieve her camera, Archbishop Albert and I knelt in prayer before the sarcophagus.  It was moving for me in a way unexpected as I held a number of folk whose lives are fraught with the challenge of disease in my heart and in prayer, asking Blessed Vasyl to intercede for them in their distress.

Upon her return, our guide gave each of us a packet of brochures, a relic of Blessed Vasyl, a bottle of oil touched to fabric which he had worn, and a book.  We were both grateful.  The requisite pictures were taken, and though reluctant to leave this holy site, our guide needed to be about other things, and there were parts of Winnipeg yet to unfold for this tourist and his guiding friend.

Archbishop Albert and Fr. Rick, Shrine of Blessed Vasyl Velychkovsky,Bishop and Martyr

It was cloudy when we emerged from St. Joseph Church.  We clambered into the car, and headed back west toward the central area of Winnipeg where the government buildings of Manitoba stand.  Our destination: the Manitoba Legislative Building.

When we arrived, we parked one of the streets which encompass it.  Surrounded by grassy areas sprinkled with large trees, we moved to the side entrances, hoping to avoid a demonstration taking place on the front entrance steps (God bless democracy!)   Our avoidance was not to be allowed, as locked doors and signs told that the sole entrance was the front.  We therefore unobtrusively (right, Albert’s 6 foot 2, as am I) climbed the wrap-around steps to the entry and entered just behind one of the demonstration speakers who was ensconced between two pillars (we found we could agree with the basic reason for the demonstration: legislative support for women with disabilities).

Manitoba Legislative Building (source: www.gov.mb.ca/mit/legtour/exterior.html)

Entering the very large Greco-Roman revival structure, we came face-to-face with the two guards on duty at their station.  Friendly in that now familiar Canadian way, they waved us on.  We stepped into a grand entry, and then walked about taking in the size and breadth a simple beauty of the place.

Interior grand steps, Manitoba Legislative Building

Skylight above grand stairs, Manitoba Legislative Building

Interior Dome, Manitoba Legislative Building

Fresco, Manitoba Legislative Building

As the room was closed where the legislature meets, we removed ourselves again to the exterior (but not before we had to negotiate our way through a group of young Filipinos, all dressed in tuxedo and flowing dresses, a wedding party there for that pre or post wedding ceremony ritual, photographs!  He was handsome, she radiant; all were intent on the best shots amidst the grandeur of the building.  The Filipino population in Winnipeg exceeds 50,000 at this time, an influx not unlike that in the States).

Outside in the overcast, with a bit of a mist in the air, we walked to the back entrance of the Legislative Building toward the Red River walkway and the memorial of Louis Riel, which stands overlooking the river, intently gazing west. 

Louis Riel, founder of Manitoba Province, Canada

Manitoba Legislative Building, as seen from Red River shore, looking west

We turned north to walk the biking / running pathway which courses through the western edge of the grounds.  Passed by a cyclist or two, we soon came upon statues celebrating another prominent figure of Manitoba.  Chicago has its cattle; Cincinnati has its pigs; Terre Haute has its horses; Indianapolis its race cars; Manitoba — its bears!

It was at this point that Albert informed me of the origin of Winnie-the-Pooh: Winnipeg!  A story of a bear, its master traveling to England, the bear remaining with a family whose child grows up to write the stories of this child’s favorite!  Albert was very proud to say Winnipeg spawned this bear; he also laughed when realizing how few people would have any idea!  With the laughter still echoing, he posed with one of the gang.  Nothing more need be said!

Unable to bear any more laughter, we strode toward our car for some more somber viewing: the Lieutenant Governor’s Residence (the current occupant is a Canadian of Chinese descent), and a statue of her majesty, the Queen.  We were impressed by the residence; we paused, somewhat reverently, before the queen; no bows, though!

Lieutenant Governor's Residence, Winnipeg, Manitoba

Queen Elizabeth II, statue outside of the Manitoba Legislative Building

Our time was now becoming limited, as the Archbishop had an engagement with a seniors group of French-speaking actors celebrating their 25th anniversary of thespian fun.  And so we returned to the grounds of the Archbishop’s House in smart time.  We did have sufficient time to entertain one more statue.  It seems that the statue of Louis Riel we had seen at the Legislative Building was the not the first on that pedestal.  The original was removed in favor of what we had seen, that statesman-like figure.  Albert abjured that one could only grasp the exchange by sighting. 

The original is on the campus of the University of St. Boniface, adjacent to the Cathedral complex, within easy walk.  We passed the main building of the University (Albert’s college alma mater where all classes are taught in French).  The monument which the school erected stands to the east of this building.  As I was left to decide why the exchange, so I will leave you to decide.

Main building, University of St. Boniface (just east of the Cathedral of St. Boniface)

Original Statue of Louis Riel Memorial, transferred to campus of University of St. Boniface

Plaque at Louis Riel Monument, campus of University of St. Boniface. Be sure to enlarge viewing of the photo to read (on the left) the English version of the history of this monument.

Our evening activities parted.  Albert left for the Senior Thespians meal and vignette performances (later he declaimed them “delightful!“)  I found my way to a delightful dinner and excellent conversation with the house residents, followed by some reading, watching the World Series (a good game), enduring for a time Notre Dame vs. USC (dismal), and awaiting His Grace’s return.  When he sauntered in, we indulged once again in fruit, cheeses, crackers and some fine scotch, conversing about our day and looking toward the next.  We retired in time, to sleep and then to rise for Sunday.

The day broke sunny and crisp in St. Boniface, the original French foundation of the city of Winnipeg on the eastern shore of the Red River.  The day was going to be a day of learning.

Geography and History — The former Social Studies teacher in me cannot resist sharing some geographical and historical perspective which might be helpful for those readers from the States (about 99.9% of all the readers of this blog).

Bordering North Dakota and Minnesota on the south, with Ontario east and Saskatchewan west, Manitoba is (as most of the western provinces of Canada) massive.  It encompasses 647,797 square kilometers (250,116 square miles), with a population (2006 Census) of 1,148,401 (Source: Statistics Canada).  Known as the “The Land of 100,000 Lakes”, these many waters flow within the vastness of the prairie (the province is table-top flat).  

The modern nation of Canada (itself a part of the British Empire; Elizabeth II is their Queen) comprises 10 provinces and 3 territories.  Spanning over 9.9 million square kilometres (6.151 million square miles) of which 891,000 square kilometres are water, it is the world’s second largest country by total area, sharing with the United States the largest land border in the world.

Like all the “Americas”, the first to inhabit this land were aboriginal tribes and their civilizations.  The Vikings made a brief foray to the eastern shores circa 1000 C.E. (Christian, or Common Era).  Beginning in the 15th Century European explorers came: first, John Cabot (English, 1497), followed by the French explorers Jacque Cartier (1534) and Samuel de Champlain (1603).  From among the French who began to settle these newly discovered lands came the voyageurs, buffalo hunters and fur trappers working for the Hudson Bay Company.  In time, they met, interacted with, and in many cases, married peoples of the First Nations (aboriginal tribes, Cree, Sioux, among others). 

When France was defeated by England in the French and Indian War, the Treaty of Paris passed all the northern French colonies to England (1763).  From that point forward the life of these peoples mixed into what would one day become “The Confederation”  and eventually, the “Dominion of Canada” (1867). 

The Province of  Manitoba entered the Confederation on July 15, 1870, through the leadership of Louis Riel (a Metis — descendent of mixed blood, French and First Nation) who would play a pivotal role in the history of Saskatchewan as well.

What would become the capital, Winnipeg, began as an aboriginal gathering area at the confluence of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers.  The Metis, drawn as the aboriginal peoples to this natural gathering, founded within sight of this natural flowing of waters the area of St. Boniface (now a part of Winnipeg).  As a French based settlement, it grew and flourished, expanding its influence west and north.  In time, the entire area of Manitoba became for these French-speaking Catholics the Diocese, then the Archdiocese, of St.Boniface. 

In 1916, the Archdiocese of Winnipeg was created from the western portion of St. Boniface (a change brought about by concerns of the English-speaking Irish population who wished to have more of an identity outside of the predominant French-speaking St. Boniface).

Today the Archdiocese of St. Boniface encompasses the eastern portion of the city of Winnipeg, continues south below the Assiniboine River to a point where an artificial line drops south to the border with North Dakota and Minnesota.  The eastern boundary is shared with the Province of Ontario, and continues north to an artificial line cutting west somewhere between Beren River and Poplar River on the shore of Lake Winnipeg.  Thus St. Boniface is, cartographically speaking, an “L” laid backwards.

My friend, Archbishop Albert LeGatt, has served the Archdiocese of St. Boniface since 2009.  He came to Winnipeg from being the Bishop of Saskatoon in Saskatchewan (2001 – 2009), and prior a priest and native son of the Diocese of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan.

Saturday Morning - We saw each other at breakfast, both having slept well, thank God.  Albert had an important pastoral meeting away, which left me to wander on foot the area.

The Archbishop’s House and Cathedral complex sit on the eastern bank of the Red River, just south where the former meets the Assiniboine River.  It was to this juncture that I set out.

Known as “The Forks” (La Fourche), this park area is central to the history of Winnipeg / St. Boniface as the aboriginal gathering area in use for over 6,000 years.  Access from St. Boniface is over an artistically designed suspension footbridge.

Suspension walkway, St. Boniface and Winnipeg, over Red River

Looming large, as one crosses the walkway, soars the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, still under construction. 

Canadian Museum for Human Rights, as seen from the suspension walkway

New Canadian Museum for Human Rights, Winnipeg

Briefly overcome by the immensity of this construction project, and forced to contemplate a museum dedicated to such focus — not only its importance but its broad sweep for all humanity — I lingered in admiration.

The brisk, biting west wind did cut through my reverie, inviting me to amble further into the park.  Another artifact of adolescent daring and freedom quickly loomed — a roller blade / skateboard arena! 

Roller Blade / Skate Board pit, The Forks, Winnipeg

There was a lone boarder in the park.  I cannot imagine his delight to have such a facility at hand and under board!

Moving west, the park continued to unfold in open spaces, and eventually larger structures housing shops.

The Forks Park, with view west to shops area

I found within the shops a large variety of eateries and shops — Thai, Chinese, Canadian, Pancake House with French crepes, gelato and smoothie; ceramic, crystal, jewelry, comic book, leather, hand-woven goods, and of course, a “Canada” store.  I’m not much of a shopper, but the fruit smoothie proved awfully good, and letting it warm up a bit outside lead me to roam many of the shops looking for bargains (I found no such to my taste, but did find a fine gift for a friend).

Braving what I hoped was warmer air (it was), I set out along the shore of the Assiniboine River toward its confluence with the Red River.

The actual confluence of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers, Winnipeg

I walked along the river bank walkway back toward the suspension walkway.  The sites along and across the river were impressive.

English portion (with First Nation, then French, below) of plaque describing history and importance of the Red River, Winnipeg

The Cathedral of St. Boniface, from western bank of Red River, Winnipeg

Suspension walkway from Winnipeg (west) shore of Red River

The river walk showed much evidence of the floods of the spring and summer along the Red and Assiniboine Rivers, with the muddy water line a good 20 feet above my head, and large drift logs yet pinned at the top of the pylon supporting the suspension walkway.  If not for the flood-control ditch (dug around the city of Winnipeg after the mammoth 1950 flood), the city would have suffered great damage this year.  As it was, the city just got to see a lot of water leave behind its markings and mud!

It would be quite a flood if waters were to reach the Cathedral of St. Boniface.  Upon the eastern bank of the Red River, the cathedral rises majestically, nestled amidst trees and fronted by Tache Avenue and the Cemetery of St. Boniface. 

The Cathedral of St. Boniface, from western shore of Red River, Winnipeg

From a distance and in the proper light, one easily imagines an impressive interior of the cathedral based upon what one sees of the impressive exterior.  From 1905 until July 22, 1968, it would have been possible to match vision of exterior to interior.  But that day a disastrous fire broke out amidst some maintenance work on the roof, and within hours the roof, bells, and entire interior save the sacristy area were destroyed.  

Facade of the Cathedral of St. Boniface, set amidst the Cemetery of St. Boniface. Note sky and bisecting roof line in the midst of the rose window frame.

Cathedral of St. Boniface surviving facade

Towers and Rose Window engulfed in flames, St. Boniface Cathedral, July 22, 1968

Roof and interior engulfed by flames, St. Boniface Cathedral, July 22, 1968

Legend has the phoenix rise from the ashes.  What rose amidst the charred walls and now empty interior of the cathedral is the sixth structure so named for St. Boniface.  Completed in 1971, the visionaries who conceived it incorporated large portions of the exterior walls and the surviving sacristy area into this gathering place of worship for the people and their bishop of the Archdiocese of St. Boniface.  The plaza leading up to the new cathedral is nestled amidst the walls.  The recast bells are hung upon the interior of the facade.  The remains of the deceased bishops and other clerics attached to the history are buried in what were the bell towers.  Let the pictures below tell the story.

Facade with glimpse of new Cathedral of St. Boniface

Looking toward entry of present Cathedral of St. Boniface through doors of previous Cathedral

Present Cathedral of St. Boniface, plaza and main entrance

Looking from the southwest, facade, Cathedral of St. Boniface

Present sanctuary of Cathedral of St. Boniface, incorporated into former apse wall

Rear of New / Old Cathedral of St,. Boniface

North view, Cathedral of St. Boniface

Entry to Cathedral of St., Boniface plaza under north tower

Framework and bells, interior of facade of Cathedral of St. Boniface

What of the interior of the 1971 cathedral?  Definitely (and purposefully, I was told) smaller than before; modern in its sweep (yes, a period piece from the 8th decade of the twentieth century); warm and inviting to one who would be in solitary prayer or gathered for Eucharist with bishop, priests, deacons and laity — the Church embodied and most itself in such a moment.

Interior, looking toward sanctuary, Cathedral of St. Boniface

Stained glass windows, Cathedral of St. Boniface, looking North

Stained glass windows, Cathedral of St. Boniface, looking South

Stained Glass, the Crowing with Thorns, Cathedral of St. Boniface

I would have taken more photos, but a confirmation class with their parents had arrived; they were waiting for Archbishop Albert.  One of his scheduled events of the day which he invited me to share, I eagerly anticipated his teaching these young folk (middle school) about cathedral, bishop and church!  The night before he had spoken enthusiastically of such moments and how he delights in this interaction and the students’ reactions! 

Well, we waited.  And waited.  An adult lay catechist, who works with Archbishop Albert for such events, did explain that he could well be detained.  We waited.  Then, the catechist’s cell phone chirped; it was he; he would be detained longer, but would meet the group at the Archbishop’s House.  The catechist, explaining to us the situation, proceeded to deliver a walk-around and very credible explanation of the life and history of the Archdiocese, how and whom it serves, and a few aspects of what an Archbishop does (leaving enough unsaid for the Archbishop across the way!)

By now, it was about noon.  Time for lunch!  I discreetly left the catechist, parents and students, returning to the Archbishop’s House.  Finding the dining room and a number of the residents already eating, I joined them for a warm and spirited conversation.

Knowing it could be awhile before Albert was free, I returned to my room to read.

This entry opens with the lyrics (English, French and Inuit) of the National Anthem of Canada.  (For background on origin, editions, and promulgation as national anthem, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Canada). 

As all national anthems, this paen moves the reader / singer to embrace a nation as central to life, worthy of life, and in this case, a life centered in freedom.  Such sentiments have echoes in the French values of the revolution, Liberté, égalité, fraternité (liberty, equality, fraternity).  Echoed, too, are the values underpinning the rich history of English Law and its cousin, the values of the United States of America.  Finally, such would also be appropriate notations of the First Nation peoples of Canada.

First Nation, French, English — unique peoples connected by an intermingling, a co-existence fraught with creative tensions (which from time to time have erupted into verbal, physical and psychological violence).  And yet, they today remain bound to one another, as awkward at times as any other multi-nationed and cultured people.  In that, we are connected to them and they to us.

Driving from St. Meinrad Archabbey and Seminary (another later entry), I left my vehicle in the parking garage (wow, did that prove expensive).  With a flight from Louisville to Chicago of limited duration and timely arrival, a very long, fast walk from one terminal to another gained me the flight to Winnipeg.  Aboard the latter, with time stretching into the afternoon, passports were brought out to complete customs forms prior to landing. 

Deplaning brought all on-board to the long, grey hallways which seem to be the norm for international airports and customs / immigration areas.  Flowing into the waiting area, we queued (how British and French of us), awaiting the inevitable inspection of form, passport, and our veracity.  The usual questions came — “Your reason from coming to Canada?”  “Have your brought anything of value with you?”  “You are visiting a friend.  Have you brought anything for your friend?”  Oh, the wiles of those immigration inspectors!  When I responded to the last probe “Myself”, an arched brow and chilly smile brought forth more — “Anything of value?  Gifts other than yourself?”  I must have appeared penurious to the fellow, or downright cheap!  My response to arched brow and thin lips “A good bottle of scotch and a fine meal”, which brought another query: “Did you bring the scotch with you?”  The gentleman was doing his job, no doubt, and probably better than some others with his persistent, plucky probes!  He did wave me through, beckoning “Next!” barely before I stepped aside.

Luggage in tow, I moved through doors to find folks awaiting arrivals.  I scanned about, hoping to find Leo Groulette (sic?), the man I was told would meet me.  Seeing no sign with my name emblazoned upon it, and no eyes in search of me, an assumption took over: Ok, he’s late.  I’ll go upstairs and see if he’s there.  Ascending on the elevator (ascenseur in French), a bustling, relatively small (compared to Chicago!) departures area revealed no one preying for me.  

I had received by e-mail Leo’s cell number; I dialed; the response was quick, a female voice, somewhat faint.  Taken by a fit of anxious hope, I said “Leo?”  The voice responded “No.  I am Simone.  Where are you, Father Rick?”  Well, she was down below where I had been; I was up where she had arrived.  Assuring me that she would be right up — a promise readily kept — my eyes soon clasped a petite lady, small in stature and warm of smile.  She held a sign, “Richard Ginther”.  She queried, “How did I miss you?”  My response, “How did I miss you?”  Laughter engulfed us!  We decided that I must have been looking “over” the crowd and she “at” the ground for us to have blundered past one another.  With smart step, she lead me outside to a waiting car with Leo at the wheel, busily fending off a parking-flow attendant who was urging Leo to move on

The ride into Winnipeg was delightful, my chauffeur and greeter divulging their ages, their life together in a second marriage after losing their first spouse, their children, their joy of being able to ferry visitors to the Archdiocese of St. Boniface and Archbishop LeGatt (as  and when they are able), and their work with and through the Knights of Columbus housing for the elderly.  As they were pointing out landmarks, bragging on the NHL Jets and the CFL Blue Bombers (especially over the Saskatchewan Roughrideers, Archbishop Albert’s favorite), there was an urgent bet between them which they said was mine to settle: did “Fr.” before my name mean brother?  Simone said yes.  Leo said no.  Simone had surmised it meant “brother” (in French,  frere); Leo insisted it must be more like “Father”.  To his delight, Leo won.

These two kind folks deposited me at the Archbishop’s House (sometimes referred to as the Archbishop’s Palace — in French, palais — a term not in current usage but still held dear, it would seem, by some).

Archbishop's House signage

Archbishop's House, original section, St. Boniface, MB

Gaining entry through a buzzer system, the receptionist greeted me warmly and assured me that Alice, the Archbishop’s secretary, would be down very soon.  Appearing as promised, Alice was just as warm in welcome, and drew me with my luggage through the much larger (than appears above) structure.  Without time for camera, what unfolded can only be described as historic — the original section from the 1860′s (the oldest and longest occupied residence in all of Winnipeg!), additions made for expansion of not only residents but meeting areas, with attachment of former seminary-now-retired priest residences, and a convent next door housing Sisters of Africa who care for some food and the cleaning needs of this large house. 

After a dizzying and circuitous tour through this maze, Alice left me in my room.  Post-travel weariness set in after unpacking.  Reading led to a nap.  The nap complete lead to supper in the dining hall in the basement (I found the ascenseur, at bottom the signs for Cafétéria, and lastly the food line!)  The meal was delicious.  I sat alone rather than interrupt the conversations of the French speaking residents (other than “Qui” and “No”, I am at sea in French.  I would later find that all residents speak English as fluently as French; I would not be alone at a meal henceforth). 

Returning to my room, a sampling of local and cable TV proved Canadian TV was as full of options as anywhere in the States. 

Eventually returning to my reading, around 8:30pm I was happy to hear footsteps in the  hall and a knock at the door.  It was Albert, home by air from Cornwall and the annual meeting of the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops (CECC, CCCB).  We had not seen each other since Albert’s visit to Indianapolis in the spring/summer of 2003 or 2004 (neither of us could remember!)  When last we were together, he was Bishop of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan; I was Director of Liturgy for the Archdiocese of Indianapolis and Rector / Pastor of SS. Peter and Paul Cathedral.  Our lives had changed, but happily our friendship and pleasure at seeing one another had not!

(Archeveque) Albert LeGatt

Leading me to the second floor, he showed me to the living room adjacent to his office and quarters.  They were very warm, well-appointed but in no way ostentatious.  Prepared by one of the sisters for his late arrival were cheese, crackers, fruit and vegetables.  And from the cabinet he drew forth one of the things he and I have shared a liking for since the day we met at the University of Notre Dame: fine scotch! 

Though he was travel-weary, he was hungry, and so began our first time of sipping, munching and sharing our mutually fascinating and shared lives in ministry.  Catching up on family was important as well (I spoke especially of the very recent Siblings’ Weekend, he of his Father, his brother now married and with his wife expecting a child, and his sister who is suffering from cancer).  

The range of topics could have been endless, but discretion reminded us we had other times for such.  And so, appropriately he shared what was for tomorrow on his calendar and how I might choose, or not, to intersect in some aspects of it.  Otherwise, he guided me to things I could easily do within walking distance; there were plenty of options. 

Wisely, we parted; slumber came to us both, for tomorrow would be a full day.

Yes, it has been too long since the last post!  I could spend valuable words on why, but let’s face it — during the two weeks in Indy I was catching up on all of Greece, etc.  Then, off to St. Meinrad, then to Canada (both to appear at a later date — I’d like to say “soon”, but I’m not going to get your hopes up)!  Therefore….

Dialing back to October 14….

The Cast — Siblings, plus one, plus….

The Siblings: Martha, Fran, Mary, Rick, Esther, John

Jeanette (John's wife)

Jessica Lynn (Mary's guinea pig)

The Place — Wasatch Lake

#3, Wasatch Lake

#3, WasatchLake, rear

Deck, #3

Visually set?  I hope so.

Friday.  We arrived in turn — Mary, hostess, along with John and Jeanette, co-hosts.  You see, it was the Indy Siblings turn to organize this year’s gathering — place and dates (after consultation), food, games, outings, etc.   So, it’s fitting that they arrived first.  Wondrously, Martha (from Poplar Grove, IL), arrived next, while I followed in from Indy (I had things to do which detained me: packing!)  Unloading was a great deal of fun — NOT!  We did it with humor and tempered speed, befitting our approach to such and our growth in the number of circuits of the planet Earth around the Sun!  We were not deterred by the stairs; we were challenged; and we conquered!  And no one was injured — except for that pesky last step going down which alluded more than one of us; thus, human projectiles tumbled or vaulted out the back door until all became accustomed.

The long climb

Once settled into respective quarters, we just couldn’t stay inside!  We seemed mesmerized, pavlovian if you will, in our movements toward lake, dock, hills and fallen leaves.  After  lingering, just taking it all in — breathing the fresh air, gazing at the fall colors and the water, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the crisp temperature, oh, and breathing the fresh air — we broke toward the cabin together for what one does after so much nature: preparing to eat!

There are those who prepare to eat, and there are those who eat.  I attest, I was more impressed into the latter.  Jeanette lounged with me, while John, Mary and Martha (yes, did you note earlier we have an evangelist, a listener and a busy bee among us?) prepared.

John, slicing and dicing

Martha, busy about many things

Mary, with the lettuce, taking it all in

Now, I ask you, if you look closely, the question arises: how many siblings does it take to prepare one salad? 

We really did eat other foods; it’s just that the wonderful soup (a gift prepared and transported by Martha) was simmering, the bread was warming, and the Cheetos were safely in their packaging when these photos were taken.  There were other goodies yet to arrive, since Fran and Esther (also known as Frances.  Confused?)  were yet to arrive (detained by an annual meeting at St. Mary-of-the-Woods for which Frances [also known as Esther], and now traveling to our remote hideaway in the dark).

As our father was wont to say, “One pig waits on another”.  And so began our meal.  The conversation was lively, the food excellent, and the warmth of the room enhanced by John’s ability to build a fire.

The night wanderers finally arrived, headlights piercing the darkness, drawing us all back down “those stairs” to happy meeting and swift invitation to eat.  Though we early gatherers were sated, we did not spare our presence at the table, enjoying a continuation of conversation, memories and teasing.  A fitting completion for our table was a wonderful apple pie, another gift which Martha had baked for us (yes, there were other pies our late-arrivers — Esther, that woman with two names, and Fran — had brought with them from Marilyn’s Bakery in Hobart, IN!)

Apple pie by Marth. Yummy!

Our conversation broke into smaller groupings, at table, around the fire, on the deck (the last who braved brisk temperatures to inhale air compressed through burning paper, tobacco, and filter material).  Ironically, the conversations seemed to blend again into one.  But soon enough, though games of Yahtzee or Farkel were proposed, the gaggle of Ginthers were of like mind — to bed, to rest, and to rise in the morning!  And so we repaired to our rooms.

Saturday.  The day began early for some, later for others.  None of us are morning folk, never have been, never will be.  Coffee is essential; relatively muted voices are expected; later risers are not cajoled for their somnolence.  Breakfast was thus languid and self-serve, except for John’s sausage and eggs over the stove — which he shared (thanks, Bro!)  

As this is a cabin with 7 humans sharing 2 bathrooms, our toilettes spanned some time.  Some prepared to face the world (Martha) with full onslaught; others put on fresh clothes and a smart face; still one of us just dabbed here and there and pronounced “I’m ready”.

As this unfolded, those ready re-encountered the bucolic setting as we gathered to venture for a hike around the lake.

Mary and Esther below deck

John and Jeanette strolling

We set out together; actually, in two groups: the hearty (group #1), and the bold (group #2).   The former were those challenged in some physical way who were going to do this hike no matter what; the latter were those not challenged physically who were going to do this hike no matter what, just more steps, rills and ridges.  At the outset we came upon two pets of the place — pig and dog.  Funny to be greeted by a tail-wagging dog of considerable size and strength, and a pot-bellied pig who from time-to-time (between snoring and snorting) actually walked on all fours!

The lake as we hiked

Hiking can be fun.  With us, it is not only fun, but allows varied pairings for conversation just waiting to happen.  And so we hiked so that we could listen, speak, and muse together of our life’s challenges, joys and questions.  Natural shifting (re-partnering) occurred amidst stops along the way to admire some aspect of God’s creation or a need to pause (remember, we are older now).  Eventually we arrived on the far-side (not Garry Larson’s version; although when you looked at us — go back to the opening picture — and considered the pig, the dog, and Jessica Lynn, how far were we from that side?)  The lake was being whipped by a stiff breeze while we admired our accomplishment, gazed toward our temporary domain, and breathed (some, of course, filtered).  A group photo by Fran was in order; we posed dutifully, and she did not lose her camera (with actual FILM in it!) to the waters.

Our return to #3 brought about a frenzy of activity — packing of picnic lunch, taking a nap (for me the height of frenzy this weekend), and checking for the best directions.  Our destination: the Covered Bridge Festival in Parke County.  Our challenge, as we were to discover, getting there!

Ok.  Wasatch Lake Road to Owl Hollow Road, then right.  At Indiana 42, left to Indiana 59.  Right onto Indiana 59.  (Are we there yet?)   Pass over I-70, heading toward Brazil, heading north…  Down a gully, over a rise, and then….

STOP!  The tentacles of modern for-profit, not-for-profit and tax-exempt commerce reached deep into the bowels of Clay County, far from their source in Parke County, consuming (pun intended) all who would pass by (or hoped to pass) but couldn’t move more than a feet every minute!

Traffic drama, Covered Bridge Festival, Brazil, IN

Glenn Campbell  sang “By the Time I Get to Phoenix”.  It was a good song, melancholy but true.  Our situation nearly inspired a newer version, “By the Time We Get to Parke County”.  But we resisted.  Instead, we began (in the car which I was driving) playing the game “At least…” 

Have you ever played?  Said game involves a level of pathos: you are stuck in a situation, annoying if not unbearable; but rather than give-in to urges to curse, swear, or lower oneself to negative self-pity and even verbal annoyance with one’s companions, you find that “at least” you aren’t somewhere else, annoyed or perturbed by something else.  And so, in this case: “At least we’re not in a plane, circling over O’Hare International, fourth tier-up and wondering if we will land or crash (the latter due to insufficient fuel).   And again: “At least we are not that cow in the pasture having to stare at all these human beings in their noisome, smelly vehicular contrivances which disturb our cud-chewing”.  And yet again: “At least we have one another to while-away these minutes (hours?) together, enjoying the savored family time”.   

Amidst “At least….”, we discovered another pass-time.  It’s called the “Can you believe that asshole?”  (Editor’s Note: The use of this word in this blog was long-debated among the Siblings; arguments both pro and con were advanced.  The editor listened to all, musing the consequences both ethical [censored], grammatical [proper] and politically correct [b--l---t].  Substitutions were allowed for consideration — annal, ventral orifice, butt, butthole, posterior vent, a-hole.  It was even advanced that raqah or “fool” would do — but biblical proscription [Sermon on the Mount] quickly set that aside.  Evidently, the editor found the original most fitting!)  It all began with…

a simple need for communication between the two vehicles in our group.  Stalled somewhere south of Brazil, Mary removed herself from the back seat of the lead car and went to check on the mental health of the occupants of our other car (remember, John was back there, the “opining one”, questioning the duration of our trek; memories of vacation trips, with such opining by John commencing after only 10 miles, loomed large).  The well-being of all ascertained, Mary the consoler was no more than 10 feet from regaining the lead car when, lo and behold, there was small (and brief) movement ahead — and this “asshole” behind our second car honked his horn in irritation that we were holding up the line!  

I am sad to report for the Siblings (Jeanette, too) that more than one such individual needed to be reported and so named in our day’s trek!

Our traverse through Brazil behind, we rocketed forward for a mile, only to be slowed to a crawl and then to a halt no less than thrice (State Police traffic control at varied intersections was the culprit.  We were sorely tempted at the first such crossing to report a certain “horn happy” individual; we refrained).   In the midst of one of our crawls, we passed over into Parke County, a truly paschal moment! 

Soon enough we left Indiana 59 (by way of a right) for a picnic spot.  The Army Corps of Engineers were our hosts at Cecil M. Harden Dam and Lake in Parke County.  Bereft of any yard sale, garage sale, rummage sale, in fact of anything remotely connected with the sprawl of the Covered Bridge Festival, this small flood control and wildlife area was perfect for us!  Except….

for the wind!  Oh, my goodness!  It had to be clocking 30 miles per hour, with gusts fiercer.  But we braved it — finding waves upon the lake, few leaves upon the trees, and a picnic area (though lower than the parking lot and presumably less windblown) a challenge for paper plates or plastic forks!  But, “At least… we had a place to eat, walk about, and experience together”.  And John didn’t get lost!

Cecil M. Harden Dam / Lake, Parke County, IN

John returning from artifact hunting

Well-fed, windblown, we retreated to our vehicles.  Soon enough we came upon an actual covered bridge (what we set out for oh so long ago!)  

Billie Creek is a village, a preservation site for Parke County of historically significant structures.  It is open year-round and well cared for. 

Unfolding ourselves from our cars (those older joints just don’t function like they used to), admission tickets we purchased and entry was imminent.  But we lost Jeanette as she conversed with some gentlemen selling “Indian Corn” (tri-color corn).  John explained: once she is thus engaged, she enters into her inquisitive “I love to rendezvous in 1840′s clothing, regalia, and learn more and more of the former way of life which I love to live on weekends with my husband, daughter and son-in-law, my grandchildren and friends….”  John said to let her be.   And so we did.  She did eventually catch us up!

It seems appropriate to allow you, the patient reader, to simply gather what you can from the photos and captions below which are the result of our meanderings through the village.

 

Beeson Bridge, entrance to Billie Creek Village

Beeson Bridge interior

Log cabin with crafts, leather and bead work

St. Joseph Church, erected 1886, moved to Billie Creek Village 1971, when new parish church erected

Sanctuary of old St. Joseph Church, with many original furnishings

Covered Bridge Courier Office

One Room School House

Union Baptist Church, built and dedicated 1859, moved to Billie Creek Village 1981

Billie Creek Bridge, Billie Creek Village (in use, with a caution: Cross this bridge at a walk). On its original site.

Rockville. Oh, no, not again!?

The backside of the lead driver. His better side? How big are those ears?! Hmm...

Esther (lounging), Jeanette reading (just out of picture), John, Mary, Martha and Fran (preparing), Rick behind the camera, and Jessica Lynn safely in her guinea cage (another room)

Sunday afternoon, the Lake

 

Fire in the pit by which to warm one's hands and heart

 

Jeanette, John and Frances coming in

Mary and John: soon we will leave

Thursday saw Mike, Kelli and Joanie off to the Island of Tinos for a day trip.  I remained on Syros, taking in the sun, the breeze, and working hard on the blog to get a couple of entries posted before I was away from internet access during travel back to the States.  It was an un-remarkable day, for the most part.  But two posts were finalized. 

When the travelers returned and gained a seat on the veranda the told of a fascinating smaller island; there they experienced an Orthodox Church and Shrine of great beauty and almost saw Joanie ”fly” (the wind was so strong it took Mike and Kelli to keep Joanie on her feet).  Nana soon enough brought forth a wonderful plate of fish and potatoes as “appetizers” before our dinner. 

Fish (large local sardines), potatoes and tomatoes, ala Nana

 She slipped away to be with Takis; Mike fileted the fish (he does this very well); all ate of the gift, and then we set off for Savvas.

Our evening meal was delicious.  Giorgios attended to our needs in that leisurely fashion of the islands.  We were able to meet Giorgios’ mother, who was delightful.  The English couple I had encountered my first evening at Nikos’ and Sons was there; we chatted about our experiences, and bade farewell, they to Santorini, I to the States.  The desert, baklava, was sooo good!

Fr. Rick and Giorgios, at Savvas Restaurant, Syros

Mike, Joanie and Kelli, Savvos Restaurant

Friday was a day of packing and bringing my time on Syros to a close.  Joanne had not yet been to Sacred Heart Church, so she accompanied me there as I wanted to take photos of the interior (missed on Sunday because I left my camera behind).  It was good to walk with Joanie a bit, navigating up the “side entrance of the hill” to the church (she was not up to the steep climb of the “road less traveled”).  She found the church lovely, and enjoyed the breeze in the plaza in front of the church. 

Stairwell to Sacred Heart Church Plaza -- a much easier climb!

A peach colored house, with laundry

Our return walk was an easy-paced amble; we admired the tidy households, and the few houses not white with blue trim!  We did make a brief stop at Nikos and Sons to arrange for my afternoon transport.

By mid-afternoon the luggage came down the stairs; the local house cat greeted me. 

The Galissas Gato of Nana''s household

Petros, my driver, arrived and was enjoying the company of Nana, Takis, Mike, Kelli and Joanie.  A local cat joined in the farewell, too!  Did I say that there were cats on Syros?  Believe me, there are, friendly and otherwise.

Another Galissas Gato (kitten), come to say goodbye

Hugs and kisses (both cheeks) were happily shared, and then again!  The car quickly loaded, our drive to Ermoupolis commenced; it allowed some time to lay down a memory of some of the fine vistas along the road – which sadly were impossible to photograph!

Arriving at the ferry landing, we found it a-swarm with folks!  I suppose this was to be expected; it was Friday afternoon, and the weekend ahead was opening to locals and tourists for adventures and departures.  Petros helped me to find the ticket office (I splurged with a “first class”), unloaded my luggage, thanked me for visiting, welcomed me to return, and then departed to return to his job with his father, Nikos.

The ferry which was docking as we arrived was the Nissos Mikkanos, the one which carried me to Ermoupolis!  Mine arrived soon after, the Blue Line “Ithaki”, plowing rapidly through the water, but its docking was impeccable.  As the Mikkanos blew its massive horns to sail, we began to load.  Soon enough all were aboard for the 3 hour 25 minute journey to Athens.  The time passed quickly.  First class meant sitting in the very front of the upper enclosed deck, immediately over the prow.  Very large windows (some covered within to shield us from the sun blazing through) were from time to time deluged with water as the ship negotiated waves and troughs; it was an eerie feeling for this landlubber when the front of the ship would resound, shuddering with the impact of the waves!

We arrived just as night was descending upon Athens.  The melee to retrieve the larger pieces of luggage ensued (challenging to get one’s luggage free of a tangle even as disembarking large trucks and busses were within a few feet attempting to speed into the night streets of the city). 

A short walk to the taxi stand revealed a queue overseen by a gentleman who made sure everyone would get a taxi in their turn.  My driver readily recognized ”Attalos Hotel, please”; we sped off over what had by now become familiar highways linking Piraeus and Athens.  The familiar soon enough dissolved into the unknown, giving me pause (and hopeful prayer) that my driver really did know where he was going!  But he did very well, negotiating the one-way streets to bring me to the hotel’s front door in good time, with the price exactly as Father Marty had stated it should be.

The gentleman at the desk recognized Father Marty’s name, my keys were quickly passed, and I was boarding the elevator (VERY small) to the fifth floor.  It was good to be safely inside my room, just right for one person.  As an older hotel, the Attalos is situated between larger buildings in this part of Athens; but it was well-maintained, the smallness of the elevator and bathroom notwithstanding!

One of the amenities of the Attalos is the bar on the roof.  It has a spectacular view of the Acropolis (lit), and of another Athenian hill with a second century Roman ruin (also lit).  One Manhattan and some time with my camera seemed a good way to end my time in Athens! 

The Acropolis at night, Athens

Early mornings are rarely good for me; this one was no different.  But I did arise when the alarm told me to, showered, repacked, and made my way to the lobby, where the desk man kindly called a cab and even assisted with the loading.  The driver spoke little English.  Conversation was negligible, but he was good at his task, taking me from the depths of Athens to the airport in good time and, again, at the fare I had been told would be fair. 

Getting my ticket was easy; I snagged a simple breakfast at a kiosk, ate a large Greek roll (washed down by a large cup of coffee!), and then proceeded through security and to my gate — all rather painless. 

There were few passengers present; it was early.  Is that why it all went so quickly?  I had wanted to be early, as traveling by myself through an airport I had only once passed through would be a challenge.  I knew that the volume of travelers would be small.  But this small?  

Emerging from security, I took note of the first clock I had seen since exiting the cab.  Travelers on a mission look ahead to obstacles, both at a distance and underfoot, when passing through the terminal, as had I.  Lo and behold, the clock revealed — you guessed it — I was an hour earlier than I had planned!  Arggh!  That’s what happens when your watch is digital, you don’t know how to change its time zone feature, and you do the math in your head (7 hours difference) at night, and get it wrong!  Ah, well, it was going to be a long day anyway, right? 

Right!  In all, I spent 23 hours in airplanes and airports (4 of each) from Athens to Indianapolis.  There were no delays or emergencies.  The air under the planes was seldom rough.  The young couple I met on the first leg (Edy and Ryan) who were returning from the Greek Isles honeymoon were delightful to get to know (we have since shared e-mail addresses).  For the first time in my life I stood on German soil at Düsseldorf Airport (partial bucket-list complete, at least with a few footsteps).  Customs and security at JFK were painless.  And all of the staffs aboard and in terminals were kind, courteous and helpful. 

But by the time the flight from Dulles Airport was descending into Indianapolis, I was done — done with flying, done with having a tired, somewhat chaffed posterior, and done with being away from the Midwest for so long!  It was wonderful when the tires thumped the runway. and my cell-phone came to life!  Home!  

Debarkation was without incident, the long walk through the terminal was, well, LONG (why is it that all late-night flights dock at one of the farthest gates when closer ones are empty?), and gathering my luggage was simple.  I texted my sister Mary, sitting a couple of miles away in the Cell-Phone lot, and soon enough the Spanish Pearl Red Honda Accord (used to be mine; sold it to her) glided up.  What a marvelous sight!  A quick hug and kiss and luggage loaded, we set off for her apartment.  Thank you God for this blessing.  Thank God for the wonderful month away to connect with so many friends, see so many sites, learn so much about St. Paul, and live for a time in such a warmly welcoming culture as Greece! 

Epilogue: Not all Ginthers are blonde; but any of us can have blonde moments.  Mary did.  She sat in the Cell Phone lot for nearly an hour.  Becoming concerned , she drove to short-term parking.  Upon entering the terminal she looked at the arrivals board — finding, of course, that she was standing in the terminal 11 1/2 hours early!  Blonde!  pm, correct; am, not!

I thank God that she returned in the dark of the night to take me home!

On Wednesday Mike, Kelli and Joanie went in to Ermoupolis to arrange for a journey on Thursday to one of the neighboring islands, Tinos.  I spent a quiet morning reading and working on a blog entry(Athens, Istanbul).  But about noon a restlessness came over me; it was time for an adventure.

Originally I had thought to walk to Sacred Heart Church to photograph the interior (which I had missed on Sunday when I forgot my camera).  Thus, with camera in hand, I set off down the steps to the street, but just as my shoes touched the tarmac, I thought “You haven’t gone up the road running just west of Nana’s building”.  So, I set off up a slight rise.

Nana and Takis' Apartments / Rooms, west side

Have you ever done something your mother or father told you not to do?  When I was growing up, Mother repeatedly cautioned John (my brother) and me “…not to go near the river (Fall Creek) lest you slip and fall in…”  We heard what she said; we didn’t obey.  John usually fell in, so we always spent time drying him out or he concocted some story to convince Mother (I never was a good liar; he was always convincing, to his own detriment when he told the truth!)  In the back of my head, I heard that “Mother voice” saying: “Richard….”  I didn’t listen.

A sign on this rise in the road beckoned: “San Stefanos Cave”, the arrow pointing to the left.  “Hmm.  San Stefanos Cave.  I noticed that before in my walking about.  I wonder what it’s like.  A hermit’s place, maybe?  A cave of a saint from among the local folk?  Greek Orthodox or Roman Catholic?”  Too many questions fueled by the restlessness — I turned left.

Left became right became left became ever uphill!  Galissas rests between two ridges, one north, one south.  The bay to Galissas Beach lies in between.  An inexorable climb saw me ascending the south ridge, at most moments on a very steep, rough concrete road, meandering past goats and fields, revealing vistas of farms and other small industries stretched east of Galissas in a valley which surprisingly extended to another harbor due east (a fact I would never have known without the ascent so high).

Galissas, looking northeast from south ridge

Galissas, looking east from south ridge toward Sacred Heart Church

Farm, east of Galissas

Goats on South Ridge above Galissas

Inlet and Galissas Beach from south ridge

City and bay, due East of Galissas

Sailing vessel in bay, due east of Galissas

Steep (!) roadway, South Ridge

As you can see, a number of photo “opportunities” (read “rest stops”) were necessary to move this 61-year-old carcass ever upward.  The concrete roadway eventually gave way to a dusty, gravel road. 

Concrete ends, stone road begins, south ridge

The signs for San Stefanos Cave continued to appear around the bend, at intersection and turn, ever encouraging.

Inlet and terraced farming area, looking north, northwest, from south ridge

Finally, a descent was indicated (it can’t be much farther, can it?)  This descent was steep, very steep, but once again paved with concrete.  A pause to ponder: “It’s hot.  I didn’t bring any water with me.  Do I want to go down that which I later must return up?”  I continued.

Galissas in the distance, looking from just below summit of south ridge

A relatively level place in the road – could this be it?  The isolation here must mean that hermit’s cave, right?  But further attention to the environment (I had been looking down at the concrete more than left or right) revealed an electric line leading to a large panel of new construction; and to the south a new house in Cyclades white and blue beyond a fencing overlooking the Aegean.  Someone really prized their seclusion, for which I am sure they paid a premium (unlike hermit’s of old). 

A new home, solitary, on the downslope of the south sidge

It was at this point that the road ended.  But another sign pronounced: San Stefanos Cave: 3.0 (kilometers).  And a pathway lay before me.

Far to go

The next 3.0 kilometers, punctuated by well-faded signs and periodic white-wash upon the rock walls led ever down toward the sea.  The footing was generally good, but at times hand holds upon the accompanying wall gave some steady to the unsure step.  Evidence of sheep or goats lay among the dried, twisted spring foliage, now browned and brittle.  A few cedars were the only green.  But thankfully amidst it all were two lavender flowers poking up amidst the brown and brittle.  A thankful pause for this site of life’s courage and persistence buoyed me.

Lavender Life

Sheltering cypress along wall, descent toward San Stefanos Cave

Weather worn direction sign along pathway to San Stefanos Cave

The sound of the sea crashing upon rocks told me that this cave I sought was surely out of sight, tucked somewhere on the rugged shore.  For last time I found pause: “Rick, no one knows you are out here.  You didn’t tell anyone what you were going to do (well, I didn’t know I was going to do this!).  If something happens to you, what are you going to do?  You aren’t the stuff of “Fire and Ice” and medieval fantasy, wherein folk survive their injuries through grit and determination.  Nana, Takis, Kelli, Mike, Nikos – everyone will be worried sick if you don’t return this evening…  But it’s so close.  Yes, and it’s so steep, and the cave is not in sight…  But it’s so close!”  I went on, cautiously, with a self-promise to retreat if the pathway became treacherous (“Surely someone would have made some note on the signs of potential dangers…but the signs were so faded…but the whitewash was somewhat fresh…Oh, just go on!”)

Aegean, looking north/northwest, along descent to San. Stefanos Cave

The rough pathway descending toward San Stefanos Cave

Waves upon the rocks, from above on steep pathway to San Stefanos Cave

The last meters of the climb down were breathtakingly beautiful and challenging.  Once around the curve in the wall, the unseen from above became the rock of the island jutting over the sea, showing beneath the sudden gloom a dusty, rocky descent to the Cave of San Stefanos! 

Chapel of San Stefanos

Breaking down the doors to the church!

Interior of Chapel of San Stefanos

A sign upon the door from “The priest” asked for closure after leaving.  I read the sign, turned the latch… and the door fell to the floor!  How funny!  In this solemn place of Roman Catholic religious devotion, overlooking God’s handiwork of rock and ocean and air mixed so wondrously, the door lay on the floor!    Startled was I; but a chuckle quickly filled the air!

After this mirthful moment, close inspection of the chapel unfolded frequent visitors (guest book), burned incense and candles.  The broken window pane facing the Aegean belied the caution about closing the door, but afforded an enticing vantage to the sea.  The icons and pictures asked for a gaze and some time; they were readily given.

Guest book in Chapel of San Stefanos Cave, my entry on right

The Aegean, through broken window pane, Chapel of San Stefanos

Rocks and sea below, Chapel of San Stefanos

Icon, San Stefanos, in Chapel of San Stefanos Cave

Sacred Heart of Mary, Sacred Heart of Jesus, in Chapel of San Stefanos Cave

Sitting down on the benches outside, I allowed myself to be immersed in the sight, sound and subtle moisture of this place.  Psalms proclaiming God’s creation, its blessing and awe, floated to mind.  I sat and soaked without getting wet!

Aegean Sea, as seen from benches, San Stefanos Cave

The blue waters of the Aegean, San Stefanos Cave

Cross on the rock just below San Stefanos Cave

When it was time – no watch told me, just my heart – the ascent and return began. 

Steep path leading away from San Stefanos Cave

Frequent pauses for photos intruded; momentary loss of the trail led to extra steps; a shepherd’s building noted during the descent was given closer inspection.  And I learned, once the concrete road came underfoot, that I would find less stress on knees, back and lungs ascending if I zigzagged the very steep incline – a truth revealed by the nature of the rock trail.

Waves crashing the rocks, Aegean Sea near San Stefanos Cave

San Stefano Cave, to the right, from above on ascent

Ascent continues outside of San Stefanos Cave

Pathway, ascent from San Stefanos Cave

Arid ridges of the south ridge

Arrows marking the way to San Stefanos Cave

Abandoned shepherd's shelter along pathway to/from San Stefanos Cave

Roof of abandoned shepherds shelter

Finding myself at the apex of the south ridge once again, I turned to look back to where I had been.  Seeing the wall curving toward the cave’s entrance was impeded by the low walls and curve of the down-slope.  But I knew I had been there.  And this knowledge made the descent sweet.

Descent from apex of south ridge, looking toward valley of Galissas

Closer, ever closer, to Galissas

Arriving in Galissas, I happily went to Nikos and Sons for refreshment: a very large bottle of water, some wine, and a simple late lunch.  It was quite an afternoon for quite the adventure!

Beauty in Galissas at the end of "The Adventure"

Patio / courtyard of Dendrinos' Rooms, Galissas

Following my experience of Sunday worship, lunch, some reading, snacking on leftovers from lunch and taking a stroll, I talked with Father Marty in the States at about 8:30pm (1:30pm in Indiana) to get some questions answered — mostly the when, who, and where kind — so that I could better navigate the remainder of my week here.

Most of Monday and Tuesday were spent rather simply – walking, going to the beach, reading, eating, and enjoying the breezes off the Aegean.  It was somewhat of a solitary existence which I didn’t mind.  But amidst the solitude, there were memorable moments.

Map of Syros at bus stop, Galissas

Monday morning, armed with Marty’s information, I successfully found my way to the local bus stop just 100 yards from my room.   Wanting to travel into Ermoupolis, the port city and capital of both this island and the whole of the Cyclades, I paid the 1.60 Euro (about $ 2.30) directly to the bus driver (who had one of those change machines loaded with euro cents of 5, 10, 20, 50 and 1 and 2 euro coins for change, reminding me of high school days riding a city bus and helping my younger brother and older sister with their paper routes!)  The bus (a Mercedes Benz tourist-type, very comfortable, nothing like the ramshacle buses one might see in movies) retraced the same twisting and winding road of Saturday’s journey; many landmarks were recognizable, which added to my “tourist in a foreign country” comfort level. 

Port of Ermoupolis, Syros

All passengers disembarked in the port area near the ferry landing.  My sole purpose for coming into town was to find an ATM to replenish my supply of Euros, a task easily accomplished as many banks are situated on the thoroughfare passing along the port area. 

Wending my way along the port, I took a few pictures before being purposeful.  Following a painless experience at the ATM (the machine offered a large array of language choices!), I retraced a few steps to enjoy a gelato (double chocolate with almonds – rich and creamy!)  Consuming this treat as I ambled toward to the bus stop and negotiating the volume of vehicular traffic intersecting with human traffic proved a challenge.  One must look both ways before stepping from the curb!

Church on a hill, Ermoupolis

Ferry receving passengers, Ermoupolis, Syros

The bus back to Galissas was the same as before, driver included.  However the route was the longer route, cutting along the southern coast of the island.  Here there were more curves, climbings, stops, and sites than before – twice as many for twice the amount of travel time.  I was mildly surprised when I saw the sign for Galissas Beach – the town did not readily reveal itself from this new perspective!

It was time to try a restaurant other than Nikos’.  Lunch was at Savvos, owned by a Roman Catholic family and managed by their oldest son, Giorgios.  A young man with two children and a wife, he was very friendly and talkative.  The food was very good, a Greek salad with bread and a half liter of wine; but as I had come to know the portion was just too much!  I took some back to the room, placing it in the small refrigerator for later consumption. 

Fr. Rick and Giorgios, at Savvas Restaurant, Galissas, Syros

Now the beach beckoned.  Donning the appropriate attire (especially a white t-shirt to keep the sun off my pale upper body), I walked the 3 or 4 blocks to the sandy, curved Galissas Beach.  I lounged on a towel upon the sand under a wicker umbrella, reading about the Letter to the Romans and St. Paul’s understanding of his mission, as well as a novel.  Setting aside the books, I waded into the water, cool but pleasant.  The “bay” is very shallow, allowing one to wade a great distance from shore without being totally immersed; the 1 foot waves were gentle as they swelled.  Now wet, it was back to the books.  But soon I wandered the beach north, to see the base of the north ridge which flanks Galissas Beach and Bay.  There appeared somewhat of a demarkation dividing two beaches — larger bushes jutting to toward the sands, and pebbles and sharp rocks which hurt the feet!  This demarkation, natural in one way, was used as a barrier lest those who chose to sunbathe nude be noticed!  I had been made aware that there were such secluded beaches on Syros; I came to find out that there are those who see seclusion in a different light!  Well, I found that access to the foot of the ridge was barred by stones and walls; with eyes toward the bay I retraced the beach (ouch! to the pebbles once again) and found my towel, books and sandals still under my wicker umbrella.  I was soon to the room.

Palms, south edge of Galissas Beach

The Aegean, south edge of Galissas Bay

Galissas Beach

The remainder of the day and most of Tuesday was consumed by rest, simple meals, reading and writing blog entries.  I was able to post two; others would follow before I departed on Friday.

Around 6:30pm, Mike and Kelli, and their friend Joanie, arrived by car (Nikos’ son Leonardos as driver) from Ermoupolis.  Friends of Father Marty, they had just arrived from Santorini, a part of their vacation in the Greek Islands.  In the late 1980’s, Mike and Kelli were members of St. Mary, Richmond, where I served as pastor.  We have remained in touch through Christmas card / letter exchanges,k and a periodic unexpected encounter.  It was good to see them and to meet Joanie. 

Kelli, Mike and Joanie, on veranda, Galissas, Syros

Their arrival was a joy to Nana and Takis, leading us all to gather around a patio table with some wine, snacks, and lengthy / ranging conversation until 9:00pm.  At that, I excused myself from a dinner invitation (too late for me to eat — I’m so NOT Greek), climbed the stairs to my room, and retired.

Early morning sun on the north slope, Galissas, Syros

I awoke to roosters greeting the early dawn, followed by a glorious sunrise painted upon the mountains (north of the beach) and the sterling white houses.   God is good in his creation and the relative quiet of this place at dawn.

 Not long after breaking my fast, Nana came for my laundry.  She was enthusiastic about doing this for me, wanting to please and to be of service.  She and Takis are not churchgoers, and so this task was not going to interfere with her usual Sunday.  I thanked her three times after she went through instructions three times!

A warm shower and shave brought me to a presentable condition for Sunday Church.  The walk was an adventure, as I believe many walks to sought destinations will be on the island.  Nikos’ directions were correct; however, what islanders would call a road appeared more like a driveway to a cluster of houses!  No street sign (typical of the island), and so I continued on past until, able to see the facade of the church through the houses nestled on the road under my feet, I began the ascent by way of steps between the houses.  Stone steps dissolved into a dirt pathway etched into the hill, which was soon enough replaced by a winding set of concrete steps.  It was these which placed me upon the mystery road.  And there was the church! 

Road continues, now bound by walls, reeds, and a Sunday vehicle

White / blue of the Cyclades Islands; just beyond were stairs

Roman Catholic Church of the Sacred Heart, Galissas, Syros

(Most people associate the Greek Orthodox Church with Greece!  How is it that a Roman Catholic Church would find such a prominent place in a Greek village?  Father Marty Peter explains: “Syros used to be called “The Pope’s Island ” because the Venetians had conquered it and sent Jesuits and Franciscans there and practically the whole island was Catholic until some repositioning of Greeks and Turks in the early part of the 20th century, resulting now in the island being about half Catholic and half Greek Orthodox.  In the port city of Ermoupolis when you come in by ferry, you will notice that there are churches on the 2 tall hills–1 Catholic and 1 Orthodox–with good relations between the 2 churches.  Syros is atypical of Greece which is about 99% Orthodox.“)

Slightly dusty and winded, I was greeted on the steps of Sacred Heart by two tourists who spoke English, but who subsequently disappeared (not churchgoers, I surmised).  The next to speak was a Greek gentleman who spoke in French “Bonjour”.  My English accented reply led to the inevitable “Parlais vous, Francais?”  Alas, I had to declaim I did not.  He nodded, and said he did not speak English.  There was a sadness behind his very black, horn-rimmed glasses; we both entered the church.

 It was well-lit, very clean, and filled with women!   All the men, save the priest, the French-speaking fellow, and the lector, were still outdoors enjoying the sun and conversation.  The place was very familiar – a Catholic church for sure.  I felt immediately at home, and after checking out the  bulletins (all in Greek), I found a seat in the second row from the back (being conspicuous was not my desire at this point).  At five minutes before eleven, a lady two rows ahead, after consulting her seat mates, announced a song, and began to lead it – it was a song of Mary – the beginning, it appeared, of pre-Mass devotions (I felt transported to my very young years as a child).  Very intent upon the singing, I failed to notice than the priest and 3 servers had appeared at their seats (having come from the sacristy to the right).  Even as the song continued, the priest cut in with a greeting, the music abruptly ceased, and Mass began in its usual manner with the sign of the cross.  So much for a smooth transition from personal, devotional prayer to communal!

In the next minutes, mostly unintelligible but ritually familiar, our prayer as “ecclesia” unfolded.  I recognized a small collection of words: Kyrie, eleison; Christe eleison; Amen (pronounced “ah-meen”); Kyrios; Logos; Evangelion.  Regrettably I did not have an English Missal with me (one of those victims of not completely thinking ahead when packing more 3 weeks prior).  I simply noticed gestures, rituals, movements and the liturgical space. 

 What did I notice as a familiar?  Large paintings of Mary and Joseph to the sides (on the outer walls); the altar forward with two candles upon it and a crucifix to the right; the tabernacle embedded in the wall behind the presider’s chair ; the sanctuary light (which I had originally missed because it was so small, inconspicuous, and electric on the side!)   The pews had fixed, unpadded kneelers, used only before Mass, during the consecration (from the laying on of hands through the elevation of the chalice) and after communion by those who received.  

Interior, Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church, Galissas, Syros

Enclosed Shrine to the Sacred Heart, right and to the rear of the church

Painting of St. Joseph, left wall of church, just before sanctuary

Painting of Mary and Child, right wall of church, just before sanctuary

Ambo (pulpit), with Credence (servers') table in background, to the right of church sanctuary

Baptismal Font and Paschal Candle, to the left, church sanctuary

Painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, with tabernacle just below, main sanctuary of church

Altar, with crucifx to right, main sanctuary of church

The liturgy had all the elements to which we are accustomed, including the servers (3 boys) looking from time to time disinterested or detached (familiar behaviors, it would appear, of any adolescent; or in brief conversations with each other when the priest was attentive to his role). We did sing one of the familiar, simple Latin chant for the Gospel Acclamation Alleluia.

At the Preparation of the Gifts, the same lady who began the hymn before Mass began intoned another – Immaculate Mary!  What a surprise to me, and a happy one, as I was able to sing the refrain in English, though I kept wondering why we were singing a Marian hymn (Lourdes) at this point in the liturgy when none of this Sunday in Ordinary Time indicated such. 

There were bells at the consecration (curiously, at the elevations and when the presider genuflected!)   And there was the sign of peace exchanged quietly and with or without words (I believe the ladies around me realized I was not Greek…  could it have been my blonde hair?)

Reception of communion reminded me of older days when everyone just got out of their seat as they wished, front and back, and formed a line.  Not all processed to receive; the French-speaking man and I were the only two men, other than the Lector, to receive; and a few ladies did not as well.  Reception was of both sacred host and precious blood, but with the priest holding both small bowl and chalice, and intincting (dipping) the host and, after inviting response in Greek, placing the dipped host upon the receiver’s tongue.  This practice harkened me back to my experience of the Melkite Rite when a student at Notre Dame (one of the churches in communion with Rome).  I was pleased to be able to receive both species, even as I was mildly surprised by the way in which they were offered (ah, a lesson of the variety of our church throughout the world, it’s most important gifts to us and the different ways we encounter those gifts).

 The end of mass brought announcements (really!), and the sending forth.   The closing hymn was unfamiliar (Kyrios  — Lord – began the verses).  The priest and servers exited to the sacristy (as in the days of pre-Vatican liturgies), a loss for me in thanking the priest for presiding, and possibly an indicator of the distance between priest and people.

I left feeling very connected as member of the Body of Christ.  The differences were less cultural than I had expected, and mostly related to the options in the liturgy and the rootedness in this community (at least the women) for personal devotion.  One cultural aspect with which I was not familiar: the women sat on the left to the rear, and on the right.  The men sat on the left in a group – except me, who sat amidst the women in the left rear!  It would seem that my attempt to be inconspicuous only made me more so!

The walk back to the room was again a wonder of colors and sites for future photos.  The highlight: one of the altar servers barreled by on his bike and greeted me with a “Hi” which sounded more like a “Eieee”.  He had noticed, and I was thankful for his greeting.

The Aegean, seen from the plaza of the Church of the Sacred Heart

The Aegean Sea was very smooth, accompanied by blue sky and a brisk wind, the latter not only the product of the passage of the ship through the water and air but of a strong wind upon the sea (which was very evident on Syros upon arrival).

The ship was clean and relatively crowded with folks on its decks.  Many remained tucked in comfortable airline-type seats, sheltered well from the sun and stiff wind.  These two decks afforded ample food and bar service; first class provided even more.  This being my first ferry “cruise”, I spent the majority of my time on the next to upper deck, mostly in the relative shelter of the fantail composed of a large open area with plastic chairs, food and drink.  The length of the journey did prompt some roaming, resulting in some interesting sights.

The Three Dolphins on the stack of the Nissos Mikanos

Fantail, upper deck, Nissos Mikanos

Outer deck: note one sunbather, one slumberer

Just aft of the bridge, starboard side, wind in my face

Between reading, a few notes, and some lunch, time passed well.  At one point a fellow sitting next to me struck up a conversation (his wife had watched my belongings when I ventured to the head).   A native of Greece, having survived World War II and its aftermath, he and his wife were on holiday, traveling to the more remote island of Anafi to enjoy the natural springs available.  Formerly an owner of an automotive service station in Toronto, Canada (where he met his wife and raised his children initially), he and his family later repatriated to Greece to continue his profession with his sons; they now run the business, and he enjoys his retirement — but not without concerns about the condition of the Greek economy and resentments (shared by many Greeks) of the control that other countries (especially Germany and France) now seem to have over its future.  He and his wife wished me well, going inside out of the wind to rest for a while (their journey would extend five hours beyond mine!)

In time I too repaired to the interior, finding an unoccupied airline type seat into which I poured myself for a short nap, which would soon enough be interrupted by our arrival at Syros.

The port of Ermoupolis was glistening with light and blue sky as we rumbled to our berth, aft first.  Once the gangway was lowered and onboard vehicles disembarked, those aboard began to pour out, lugging their luggage (I wonder which word spawned which?).  As one with them, I stepped through a sea of other folks into the receiving area, an open area which emptied almost directly onto a very busy thoroughfare. 

Amongst the colors, buildings, and many signs beckoning customers, I looked about for someone looking for me, as promised.  That one, Petros, stepped forward and queried: “Father Rick?” with a thick Greek accent.  Mildly relieved, I responded. 

Petros Kapellas, son of Nikos, Galissas, Syros

Petros was somewhat shy, but pleased to find me.  He noted quickly his English was “not so good”; but it did well to move us to his car, a small, white, dusty Toyota.   My luggage loaded, he drove us through Ermoupolis into the countryside toward Galissas.  The streets in Eurmopolis are narrow, clean, and busy with traffic.  The buildings are mostly white (very bright in the sun), some with blue doors (a custom in this part of the world); some are pastel colors, none are garish.  Most are well-kept, neat, and lived in.  A few are declining, a handful are abandoned. 

The ride to Galissas was somewhat leisurely, demanding of Petros keen attention due to the hills, curves and switchbacks.  (It was nothing like the flying cab ride from the hotel to the ship this morning in Athens!).  Minimal conversation (Petros was hesitant to speak poor English to this “Father” he was ferrying), allowed my taking-in the road, twisting, turning, narrow by our standards and climbing, ever climbing until our descent into Galissas.

Map of Syros. Light blue lines denote connecting roads

Galissas is a small town; its industry is tourism.  There are many houses which boast of rooms to let, small hotels and a couple of upscale hotels (one gives itself four stars!)  There are many places to eat, with a variety of cost and variety of price.  All serve the Greek favorites, especially souvlaki, gyros, calamari, Greek salad (the best I have ever tasted), and of course, that flaky pastry, baklava. 

In sight of a cove on the Aegean, Petros brought me to the apartment which a priest friend, Marty, owns.  From the pebble parking area we climbed two flights of stone-flagged stairs to “Father Martin’s room” (as Petros called it).  On the second landing a screen door whose interior door stood open welcomed us.  We stepped into the room, luggage in hand. 

The room, basically 14 by 14, with a corner cut out for the bathroom about 4 x 4, is painted white.  There are 2 twin beds, a sofa, plastic table and chairs, a bureau, and a small kitchen area with refrigerator, hot plate, microwave and coffee maker (ah, home!)  Windows abound facing the Aegean: there is a small  balcony proper to the room, and there is access through a common door to the larger veranda which is just outside of the windows facing the Aegean.

Stairwell to The Room

The Room, looking west

The Room, looking east

View from balcony, The Room

Petros quickly but awkwardly left.  I wasn’t sure if it was the handshake which should have been a double kiss (both cheeks as is the Greek custom), or if there was a need for some exchange of money for the petrol consumed (I will find out later that would have been insulting).   My initial guess was the correct one.

Unpacking was the first order, “taming the space”, as always.  Sitting down to work on entering receipts of the past 24 hours (second order) was just underway when a knock came at the door.  It was Nana.  She is the owner of the remainder of the building which is her home (along with Takis, her husband) and which contains other rooms for let.  She sounded a bit in wonderment that I was there –  for her husband had been waiting and watching carefully for a taxi or the local bus to arrive.  Quickly laughing and delighted that I was there safely, she called for Takis to come up.  Kisses were exchanged, smiles abounded, and quickly the tale was told of their waiting and my arrival quietly through the largess of Petros (whose father, Nikos, had sent him).  

Takis, Petros, and Nana, on patio of Nana's, Galissas, Syros

The tale told, Nana sent Takis to their rooms, and then began the “instruction” by Nana of every detail about the apartment – and I mean every detail.  She was mildly surprised to find that I was safely unpacked and that I had figured out how to plug in my laptop and adapter.  I listened carefully to her rather good English as she made sure that I understood everything (she at one point called me a clever fellow!).  When she was sure I had it all understood and had stepped into each area (bathroom, balcony, and veranda) and knew how to use the phone (free to the States!), she left.  Moments later she reappeared with the bus schedule (I had mentioned wanting to go to Ermoupolis to get some Euro from the ATM).  This was my lesson in the immediacy of response to any need I spoke.  She went over the schedule four times, and left.  Soon she was back to go over the Sunday schedule with me!  She is delightfully helpful, to say the least.

I chose to go for a walk after an aborted attempt at a nap, which I really didn’t need after having comfortably napped on the ferry, but this introvert needs his down time after interacting with strangers, even friendly ones!  I walked toward the sea to find the beaches, then through the town center to discover the locations of restaurants and mini-markets (of which both Father Marty and Nana had spoken), and tried to find the Catholic Church upon the hill.  I could see it; I just couldn’t get there!  The twisting of the streets amidst the hilly terrain made finding the exact road-up deceptive.  I literally walked nearly the entire town before I decided to return to the center to find Nikos’ tavern for supper. 

Three shops under the trellis; the farthest is Nikos and Sons

Finding the taberna was difficult; there were so many!  And though Nikos, Father Marty, Nana and another earlier visitor had tried to tell me its location and name, none of them had the same name for it!  (If I had looked low to the street level, to a small red sign with white print, I would have seen “Nikos and Sons”!)  Fumbling to find it, I broke down and asked a waiter sweeping at a restaurant if he knew where Nikos’ taberna was; I had to add his two son’s names, Petros and Leonardos, to clarify.  He excused himself, went to ask two fellow employees, and returned to guide me to the right spot.  When I walked in, there was Petros!  Greetings followed, I chose a table facing the road, and the menu was brought.   My study lead to ordering, and the meal slowing commenced (nothing is rushed in the Mediterranean, except traffic in the large cities!)  

It was a quiet meal for the most part.  For a time I was the only diner (I was on my time, not Greek time, for supper.  I would learn.).  Eventually a couple took a table nearby.  I thought at first they were from Germany, mostly by appearance and by what I believed I heard to be German.  Their conversation and ordering eventually revealed them to be English-speaking (how the eye and the ear can influence one’s misconceptions!)   As my meal was complete, they heard Leonardos call me Father Rick, and my reply cued them that I was English-speaking.  Thus ensued a lengthy cross table conversation about our origins (Manchester, England; Terre Haute, Indiana, USA), and the wonders of traveling the Mediterranean / Aegean / Greece / Turkey.  This couple soon proved to be frequent travelers who enjoyed holidays in many parts of the world, including the USA, about which they marveled at its vastness and variety.  By the end we were both delighted to have met, and will probably see one another again in the next week (we actually did, on our mutual last night on Syros).

Settling my bill, I then met Nikos (he was cooking in the back room of the kitchen).  Warm greetings were followed by instructions in finding the correct road to the church.  Goodnights were shared with Nikos and Petros.  A walk of 100 yards returned me to the Room for the night.

Nikos Kapellas, in kitchen of his restaurant, Galissas, Syros