The Sporades Again

Skiatos

September 5, 2008-Athens-Skiathos

I meet Gino, my faithful sailing companion, at the airport of Athens. The cruise with Gattadapelare has, at last, begun. After a delay of over two months on our plans, today we can say that the first step is taken. The crew has regrouped, this year without the 'girls', but always animated by enthusiasm for the promised discovery of new islands. Passing north of Euboea we will touch Scanzura, uninhabited, Skiros with its double image, Sporadic and Cycladic, Psara still locked in its mourning, Chios, homeland of great shipowners, and then again the Fourni, our beloved Marathi, then Lipsi, magical, and then Kos, thaumaturgic. We will leave the Gatta in Turkey, probably at Marmaris, to have some work done on the deck and the keel. Gino is on the waiting list, and only at the last moment do we both find seats on the plane to Skiathos.

September 6 Skiathos We go to find our boat. We left it practically abandoned at the end of the airport runway, by the sea, in the dubious care of a father and son, owners of a dilapidated workshop and a sort of precarious boatyard. The father is no longer there. He has gone to work in the Emirates. The son Nikos, a skinny young man, barefoot and dusty, welcomes us cordially in an evident state of intoxication. The Gatta is there, balanced on oil drums, covered in inches of dust, but apparently in good condition. We discover, instead, that she has been badly propped on her keel and the heel of the centerboard has deformed and is dripping water from the bilge. We lose all hope of putting her in the water today. Nikos is not capable of acting coherently and it is necessary to close the water ingress and reinforce the keel with a fiberglass sleeve.

So, today we work on the boat and wait for Nikos to reappear, meanwhile vanished into town. The morning passes putting order in the interior and the sails. We worry about the launch. The trolley on which the boat will rest is practically out of use. The wheels are flat, the uprights that should support the weight of the boat are badly welded and re-welded to the carriage and their function is guaranteed by auxiliary blocks of wood. Moreover the small tractor, also in poor shape and rusty, does not seem capable of holding back the combination of trolley and boat once it is launched down the slipway. Also the slipway near Gattadapelare has meanwhile given way and we will have to use another one, farther away and of uncertain depth. In short, all reasons to keep us anxious for the coming hours.

Later we lose all hope of Nikos's return and go to wait patiently on one of the touristy beaches of the island. Tonight we will sleep on the boat, but without the sweet lapping of the waves along the hull and the restful rocking we have fantasized about during the long months spent in the city.

Sunday September 7- Skiathos. Unexpectedly Nikos returns to the boat, sober and willing, beginning the awakening of his dilapidated equipment. He inflates the wheels, laboriously restarts the tractor engine, tops up the water in the punctured radiator, does some welding here and there, and the day passes like this, without any certainty that tomorrow we can go into the water. We roughly repair the damage to the keel. For years this problem of the water ingress in the heel of the centerboard has plagued us. We are in the appropriate place to call it the 'Achilles heel' of Gattadapelare. All the repairs made so far by adding layers of fiberglass on layers of fiberglass have not led to satisfactory results.

We should have the work done in a boatyard under optimal conditions and in the absolute absence of traces of moisture, something made impossible until now because of the constant presence of water in the bilge. The boat's ballast, made of lead shot on the bottom of the bilge compartment, holds for a long time the rainwater that penetrates through some points of the deck pierced by the screws used, at the time, to fasten the teak. Gattadapelare, therefore, has an urgent need for a deep extraordinary maintenance intervention after so many years of generous use.

from Skiatos to Skiros

September 8 Skiathos-Skopelos -6 miles. The work begins to rest the boat on the launch trolley. We are all anxious, including Nikos who hides his doubts under the layers of dust that have covered him for (we estimate at least) some weeks. Barefoot, sometimes lying among the filth of the 'boatyard' or crouched under the boat, he bustles about, hammers, lifts, wedges and, finally, with great general 'suspense' removes the supports that until now have held up the Gatta. We strongly fear that she will drop by those three or four centimeters that are the distance between the surface of the road and the bottom of the centerboard, and instead the first test is passed brilliantly. Now our anxiety is represented by the 'journey' of about a hundred meters to the slipway. The owner of a nearby workshop offers to tow with his newer and more powerful tractor.

Slowly, meter after meter, wobbling dangerously on its uncertain cradle, Gattadapelare approaches the slipway, descends until it wets its 'belly' and stops. The tractor owner does not want to enter the water with his vehicle. The anxiety that had gradually eased with the positive progress of the operation returns overpowering. We believe that Nikos's vehicle, more like a wreck than a tractor, is not capable of holding back the weight of the boat and the trolley. Moreover we don't know if at the end of the descent there will be enough depth to allow the Gatta to float. There are no alternatives: we must proceed with this agonizing launch. Hurrah! Finally, after fifteen months of starvation, Gattadapelare is once again free from the bonds of 'earthly' gravity.

The pleasure of feeling her underfoot moving gently to the light rhythm of the sea, together with the release of the anxiety of these hours, fills us with an indescribable joy. We toast with all the architects of this launch, until recently doubted credible by everyone, we pay the agreed price and... off toward the first leg of this cruise. A short leg, only six miles because the afternoon is well advanced.

We anchor once again in the delightful inlet of Panormos together with a few other boats. September is not a season of great crowds in these seas and we fully enjoy the advantages. With the tender (this too, along with its outboard motor, is now ripe for retirement) we reach the shore and the tavernas not far away. The bay that opens before us, seated and relaxed at a table on the pebbly beach, inspires peace and a sense of the freedom of conquering new anchorages.

September 9. Skopelos-Scanzoura - 20 miles. The weather continues to be fine. We leave Skopelos at leisure, heading for Skanzoura, an island four hours of sailing away. We know that the island is uninhabited and holds the ruins of a monastery. For a certain time it secretly hosted extra-communitarian immigrants of various origins, but today there is no trace of them, I don't know why. When we drop anchor at the bottom of a wide inlet there is only one sailboat, far off, to which another is added a little later. I go into the water intending to catch some fish for dinner, but the sea is empty. Not even on deserted islands is there any life left?! I discover, instead, at a few meters' depth numerous fragments of ancient amphorae now fused together and with the rocks, so much so that they can no longer be moved without breaking them.

A shipwreck or the simple loss of a cargo? Only the surrounding rocks, eternal witnesses of the events that have followed one another in this bay, could tell us how much obscure history has unfolded here over the centuries. Today it is we and our Gatta who enter the memories of the rocks, insignificant memories, but our presence here, our present moment, is for us extraordinary, as everywhere in this sea of the gods among these islands. The night passes calmly.

September 10. Scanzoura- Skiros- 25 miles. We set out under sail, taking advantage of the weak morning wind, to re-appropriate the maneuvers after so many months of inactivity. As soon as we leave the bay we make out our new destination well defined before the more blurred profile of Euboea. The wind abandoned us early and we proceed under power the whole way. When we arrive at Skiros it is lunchtime. This island is half Sporadic and half Cycladic. The western half, the one where we are, is green with trees, while the other is arid and rocky. The small harbor where we have found mooring has a short quay and we had to moor alongside another English boat. Including ours there are four of us. A few meters away, across the road, two tavernas compete for the few customers.

We choose ours based on the color of the chairs and tablecloths and after lunch we go, by scooter, to the town of the same name. It is a typical Cycladic town made of white houses clustered around the ruins of the Venetian (or Genoese?) castle that dominates from above the hilltop the countryside and the surrounding sea. It is a very genuine town with many people near the center and deserted in the peripheral alleys, where we encounter a few scattered old women gathered in little groups of three or four exchanging sparse chatter. We imagine these alleys and these little squares, shaded by the omnipresent mulberry tree, when the meltemi blows vigorously from the sea below. We walk silently and curious to discover behind every corner usual, and yet always new, glimpses of alleys, doors painted blue, stray cats and fig trees from which we pick very sweet fruit.

We sense the approach of autumn from the sweetness of the figs, from the inevitable shortening of the days, from the sun's rays ever lower on the horizon, from the growing melancholy of the light that every day loses the enthusiasm with which it has told us the colors of summer. We have dinner at the port. This time we choose the most frequented taverna. We are the only tourists. There is the inevitable pope, chubby and gluttonous, and a varied representation of locals. We apologize to our boat neighbors for our comings and goings and thus close our third day of cruise. So far we have done very little sailing.

from Skiros to Kios

September 11. Skiros-Psara. 40 miles. Today we leave early, followed shortly after by the English boat that has given us support. With some perplexity we pass between an islet and the eastern tip of the bay. We are not sure of the depth of the strait and Gino, on the bow pulpit, signals with gestures the direction and speed I must maintain. The other boat, also headed for Psara, prefers to pass on the outside, losing a bit of ground compared to us. Shortly after rounding Skiros we unexpectedly find a very confused sea, abeam, almost astern, and a brisk wind that pushes us fast toward Psara. It is the first experience of rough sea after fifteen months of life on land, and we are seized by a certain malaise that prevents us from staying more than a few seconds below deck.

With Gino at the helm, I remain lying for a long time in the cockpit, but my dozing is frequently interrupted by abundant, freezing sprays from the waves that break on the Gatta's side. The other boat has fallen behind and the distance between us grows ever greater as the hours pass. Psara appears early on the horizon and its profile quickly becomes ever more distinct. It is an island we had no knowledge of until recently. Yet its history is rich in interesting and dramatic events. Homeland of shipowners, it counted a population of thirty thousand inhabitants, but the fault of being the homeland of a proud leader, the national hero Canaris, an opponent of the ferocious Turkish domination. For this and for the stout resistance of the locals to the ruler, the population was annihilated in 1822 and all the houses were razed to the ground. Since then it has never recovered.

Today it counts barely 400 inhabitants, a couple of ruins, the foundations of the birthplace of Admiral Canaris, some corroded cannons scattered here and there and a couple of heroic bronze busts that, solitary sentinels facing the sea, guard the modesty of the present town. We arrive in the late afternoon and shelter in the wide inlet at the bottom of which a quay and a floating pontoon invite us to dock. No other boat. The sense of having arrived in a unique place is reinforced by observing the town. A narrow road runs alongside the quay to which a couple of fishing boats are moored. Three or four simple kafeion also serve as tavernas for improbable tourists. From the road some alleys branch off heading inland.

The houses are anonymous, without any particular characteristic, different from the white cube-shaped, 'spontaneous', Cycladic constructions or from the orderly neoclassical and tenderly colored houses of the Dodecanese. Dominating the modesty of this scene an imposing sanctuary rises at the end of the town at the base of a harsh hill. Another church, smaller, but also 'exaggerated' in such a context, stands out among the houses. The sensation one has wandering through these little streets is that of a community incapable of reacting to history. There is no part of the town that can be considered a center. A square in front of the quay hosts the statue of Canaris and is the only point of reference, apart from the two churches, for an improbable social gathering. There remain the three kafeion, where rare people sit.

Wandering around we find a bakery and almost at the edge of the settlement a grocery store with the pretentious sign of Supermarket. Meanwhile the English boat has also arrived and later a third sailing vessel keeps us company. In contrast with such an atmosphere of discouraged expectations, not far away cranes lift concrete blocks from some barges to create a sturdy breakwater and thus create a larger port. We have dinner on board.

September 12- Psara-Chios (Kardamyla). Miles 19 We leave Psara in the late morning and coast along it heading east. Chios appears close and sea, wind and sun lead to a calm and lazy sail. The stretch of sea that separates the two islands is an evident sea highway. Several cargo ships cross our route and on a couple of occasions I fear a collision course, despite Gino's reassurances. In the late afternoon we enter the bay of Kardamyla. At the bottom is the town which, from a distance, does not appear attractive to us. We are the only boat moored at the long pier. We read in the German pilot guide that the valley behind is romantic and the town charming. We do not share this opinion.

Perhaps at the beginning of our wandering among the islands of this mythical sea, still fasting from the scenes that would later be offered to us, we would have accepted it, but now this town lacks the poetic rhythm we are used to. We receive a visit from the Harbor Master's officer who invites us to present ourselves at his office with the boat's documents. In all these years this is the third or fourth time this has happened. We don't know whether the feared mooring tax, which we heard about some time ago, has come into force and whether, therefore, we are not in compliance. Gino and I agree to tell an improbable origin, such as not to have had time to comply with the payment. The Italian coast is too far away

from Chios to Marathi

September 13 - Chios The taxi with Pino stops in front of the Gatta, comfortably moored stern-to. The two catonauts, the veteran Gino and the novice Pino, get acquainted and the former shows the other the 'particularities' of the boat. Pino's verdict is positive: he finds Gattadapelare "fascinating", elegantly glossing over its state of maintenance. He has already earned his role on board. Anyway, today is a day ashore. We go to visit the island. We rent a car and reach Pyrgis, a village in the mastic region, the chewing gum of the ancients, the fortune and misfortune of the island of Chios. Pyrgis is also unique for its graffito houses, so that the facades appear with white and black geometric designs. But we are decidedly sea people. A few hours are enough to miss it and we go in search of a beach.

Following a road that becomes a path we descend along a small valley toward the blue that peeps out among the olive trees. The place is steeped in pagan presences; the spring we come across a little further on certainly housed a nymph and the rare stones of what was a modest temple of Apollo, though exorcised by a small Christian church built upon them, speak to us of the solar god who here, facing the sea, enjoyed the luminosity reflected by it. We bathe in a sweet and crystal-clear sea and doze off on the pebbly shore. We know of another site that we absolutely must visit. It is the village of Anavatos or rather its ruins perched on a precipice from which in 1822 the entire population threw themselves to escape the Turks. A painting by Delacroix, now in the Louvre, depicts the massacre. The remains of the village, a confused jumble of grey and ruined houses, are today being restored.

We meet no one and after a brief tour of the ruins and the view over the precipice, we leave with an anguished sense of a remote and tragic past. Nor does the grey meal consumed in an empty taverna at the root of the pier of Kardamyla help. We go to bed early. Tomorrow at dawn Gino will leave for Chios city airport and we have a long leg to do as far as the Fourni islands.

September 14. Chios-Fourni Islands. 62 miles Gino leaves us while it is still, but we do not feel like casting off the moorings right away without a minimum of reassuring light. We have breakfast and when the darkness thins we leave the quay. There is a decent land breeze which makes us leave the mainsail reefed, and which, for fear it may strengthen, makes us study alternative destinations. Pino does not know the boat and facing a rough sea with an unprepared crew worries me. Instead, as soon as we reach the beam of Chios city the wind abandons us completely. So, under motor! Visibility is poor and the humidity is high, to the point that everything on board seems wet. Pino stays at the helm the whole time, ten hours of uneventful sailing and without a single fish biting the two trolling lines we trail behind us.

In the late afternoon we pass between Ikaria and Samos and glimpse through the haze the main island of the small archipelago. When we arrive it is already dark. At the same pier where I hoped to moor as last time there is a prohibition because it is reserved for a ferry. The other jetties also seem destined for services. Some sailboats are at the wheel in front of the village and we too head among them to spend the night, resigned to not dining ashore. Our tender is out of use and it would cost too much effort to inflate it. We fumble for a long time with the anchor and the windlass motor which inexplicably jams. While from the other boats they watch us with skepticism we decide to abandon the spot and to risk, since there is dead calm, putting ourselves outside the pier.

Our decision, then, proves lucky because while all the other boats are forced, by the arrival of a large ferry, to move away from the stretch of sea they had occupied, we moor stern-to the only available little jetty pointed out to us from afar by a courteous young boy. Happy with the fortunate position (we see the other boats vainly looking for a solution) we cross the road and sit at the table of the nearest taverna. We are tired, but satisfied. September 15. Fourni-Marathi. 22 miles We are in a hurry to reach Marathi. After a brief tour of the village (it is worth reaching the little square at the end of the main street where a fine sarcophagus of Hellenistic times sits modestly in the shade of a tree) we set off. I carry with me an impression different from the one I received the first time I came here, three years ago.

Back then this village, mainly devoted to fishing, had appeared to me extremely simple, outside the time of at least three decades, a flash of an island Greece now vanished. But after the experience of Psara, Fourni seems to me by now projected into the tourist present. I realize I have become more demanding after visiting islands and anchorages more suited to a sense of romanticism that I would call "twilight", but this perceived tourist advance is annoying and makes me hurry to discover and enjoy other places not yet polluted by alien presences, aware that we ourselves are polluters. The hurry to reach Marathi is due to this. In the narrow channel we follow to leave the archipelago a group of dolphins comes to play at the bow and stays a long time performing in front of the video camera.

These are apparitions that are never denied us on every cruise of Gattadapelare and each time they excite us. At the call of the lookout of the watch we run to the bow with cameras and video cameras, lean out clinging to the pulpit and enthusiastically film the evolutions of these friendly traveling companions. It is a shame that they soon tire and move away, indifferent to our calls. But their presence always interrupts the monotony of certain days of calm sea, which are the ones in which they normally appear. The weather is fine, the wind scant, and yesterday's haze is gone. Shortly after we sight the small archipelago of Arki, of which Marathi is a part. In front of Mikalis's taverna there are at least ten sailboats at the wheel. Each time we revisit this islet, we find more and more visitors, confirming what was said above.

The first time we discovered it, Marzia and I, there were only four houses, the taverna of that eccentric character who is Mikalis, thin, slight, with a thick pirate's beard and a black bandana, and a small guesthouse with a few rooms at the opposite end of the long and narrow sandy beach which, adorned with tamarisks, faces a crystal-clear sea well sheltered from the meltemi. Now there are three tavernas and the houses have doubled. Mikalis is even thinner and on his little jetty, where we have the honor (but only we) of docking, flies the flag of the Brethren of the Coast: a skull with two crossed bones. We give ourselves over to dolce far niente. Pino is fascinated by the serenity of the place and declares he does not want to move anymore. So we decide to stay for a few days.

from Marathi to Kos

September 16. Marathi

Music, ouzo, little swims, naps under the tamarisks.

September 17. Marathi. Today we do it all over again. Boats in the bay are down to three. Every now and then a big boat arrives with a few dozen tourists who come ashore, lie in the sun, and after a while set off again leaving us once more (and happily) alone. Another sign of pollution that we must endure with forced resignation and nostalgia for the "good old days." But in the evening Marathi goes back to being for the chosen few.

September 18. Marathi-Lipsi. 6 miles

Mikalis really has turned into a bit of a pirate. His prices are no longer the ones we're used to. Our last 'Thule' is starting to resemble one of the many beautiful places this sea is rich in. We say goodbye to the characters of this anchorage while Gattadapelare heads toward Arki, right in front of us for a brief visit, but the wind is strengthening and we prefer to reach the port of Lipsi. Outside the sea is well formed but the crossing is short and we soon enter the wide bay of the island. Lipsi is another anchorage dreamed of during the gray days of everyday life. The island that hosted Ulysses for seven years, a slave to love for the beautiful Calypso, deserves its fame as a magical island.

September 19. Lipsi. We perform a good deed. We prune, water, and fertilize an almond tree that is the only thing still current among the ruins bought by Ginafranco and Marzia. The Casa del Mandorlo, as translated from the Greek, is their Arcadian dream in Aegean version. We imagine it restored, blinding under the Mediterranean sun, facing the sea waiting to catch sight of Gattadapelare entering the bay of Lipsi with sails spread. We meet Astrid, a Swedish friend of Marzia's, with whom we spend the day at the sea. The meltemi blows strong and from the modest promontory of Monodendri the gaze ranges as far as Turkey, flying over a sea whitened with foam, after rounding the islet of Aspronissi, the white island so called because of its pale and marble-like seabeds. We have dinner on board with tuna spaghetti, greedily welcomed by both Pino and Astrid.

September 20. Lipsi-Kos 36 miles

We set off amid the applause of the other crews after having laboriously freed the anchor, which had likely caught in the chain of the boat next to us. Today there is little wind and we go mostly under motor. Leros slides by on our right and shortly after, almost joined to it, here is Kalymnos, famous for its sponges, and then Pserimos. When we reach Kos and enter the port we find a spot, at anchor, only at the entrance, in front of the Knights' fortress. The port is very crowded, as the town is crowded with tourists. Kos is archaeologically and historically very interesting, but we feel that by now we have only the genuine islands we love most behind us.

All the same, we do our duty as tourists by visiting alleys, little squares, cafes, small shops and trattorias, and the over-centenarian plane tree of Hippocrates which, they say, saw the precursor of medicine teach his students beneath its canopy. When, in the evening, we return to the boat we find that it is rolling, pressed against the boat next to it, under the effect of a vigorous swell. We adjust all the fenders we have better and go to the bunk, but during the night I get up often to check the situation, also because there is a storm brewing and waves are coming in.

September 21. Kos. Another day spent in town wandering around waiting for better weather.

September 22. Kos-Bodrum (Halicarnassus). 10 miles

The sea conditions are optimal for crossing the stretch of sea that separates Kos from Turkey. We sail while observing the devastation of the concrete development of the Turkish coast north of Bodrum. We also try to locate the yard where we have decided to leave the boat without going as far as Marmaris for the work we intend to have done. When we find it we stop to make arrangements for the day after tomorrow and then continue on to the port of Bodrum, three miles away. When we enter we discover that a nice marina for yachts has been built. The service dinghy immediately comes to meet us and accompanies us to the pier for passing boats. Everyone is very courteous and helpful. The marina is equipped with excellent services and very modern facilities.

The only drawback is that it is on the opposite side of the port from the town center and the walk along the seafront strains legs and muscles made lazy by so many days in the cockpit. After several years of absence, this return to Turkey is exciting. We look for a trattoria where we can eat local dishes and wander through the streets transformed into a great bazaar sheltered by large awnings that cover it from one row of houses to the other. Gattadapelare welcomes us at the far end of the marina, motionless in water without a ripple.

Bodrum

September 23 Bodrum little bay. 8 miles

We make countless rounds to request the famous transit-log, the customs certificate that authorizes the boat's presence in Turkish waters. In the end, received by surly officials with a vaguely threatening appearance, we manage to obtain this piece of paper at cost price, rather than for 250 euros as had been proposed to us by an agency.ity: We visit the few remains of the funerary monument of King Mausolus. A few fragments of columns, a couple of capitals, a pit is all that remains of one of the seven wonders of antiquity: the Mausoleum. But we still want a bit of sea before putting the boat in dry dock, and so we leave the marina to go look for a little bay where we can spend the last night rocked by the waves. We head south, but not too far for fear that the wind will strengthen tonight and hinder our return to the yard tomorrow.

Finally Pino has the satisfaction of catching three nice fish, including an iridescent mahi-mahi.

We cruise along the coast until we choose a little cove that looks suitable to us. There is only one gulet that will keep us company. Or at least that's what we think. We have seven or eight meters of depth and we let out all the chain we have because on the horizon we see constant flashing across a wide front. Caught up in the enthusiasm for the miraculous catch (it had been years since we had pulled any fish onto the boat) we also lower a trap that has always been stowed in the bow locker. Inside we put all the unused leftovers from the galley. The sea is calm and lying in the cockpit for the last evening we look at the stars and, with some apprehension, at the storm clouds. We try to figure out their direction without success. The entire southern horizon is lit up. Then the music begins.

Not that of nature, but that of a disco hidden behind the trees, which offers us a vast repertoire of Italian singers, thus canceling out any sensation of an Eastern night.

September 24. Bodrum

The night passed quietly. The storms dissolved and the sky appears clear of clouds. The little cove is lively with canoes going around everywhere. From them we learn that around the corner there is a Valtour village. We try to recover the trap hoping for a rich haul, but the line it was tied to comes back up free and the searches made with the mask are in vain. A mystery. We read in the pilot book that on the island in front of the yard there is a hot water spring that flows directly into the sea. When we arrive at the place we find a quay for landing and a kiosk selling drinks and tickets for access to the spring. We fulfill both duties like good tourists and soak in the flow of the spring.

In the late afternoon we reach the yard where Gattadapelare is finally hauled out with proper modern equipment after years of similar, precarious operations, sometimes rough as in the case of Skiathos. The yard is well equipped and relatively inexpensive. It had been pointed out to us two years ago by an Italian skipper we met in Skiathos and we are satisfied with the decision not to leave the boat in Marmaris, as we had planned at the beginning. We get an estimate for the work we would like to have done and reach the center of Bodrum, which is six or seven kilometers from here. By now we no longer feel like gattonauts. With the boat on the cradle, the sails furled, the galley empty, we have become landlubbers again, and even if tonight we will still sleep in the belly of Gattadapelare, it won't be the same thing.

We have dinner, this time in a restaurant (a choice forced by our new 'civilian' state), and return to the yard. Tomorrow morning an early wake-up to reach Kos by ferry after completing all the bureaucratic formalities.

September 25. Bodrum-Kos-Rhodes

Here the logbook ends. The rest does not concern the adventures of Gattadapelare, but for the record I will summarize the events of these days. We reached Kos in the early morning and while waiting for the ferry to Rhodes we took a tourist coach tour of the island. As I imagined, this island, apart from the capital and its archaeological sites, is not very interesting. The 4 p.m. ferry leads to Rhodes, where it is raining and there are no taxis available. We find a decent hotel and visit the city which I already know, but which is always fascinating. A completely different Greece, indeed, a non-Greece, with its deeply Central European imprint. You have to get away from Rhodes city to find again the colors and atmospheres of the Aegean.

September 26. Rhodes

We continue to wander around the city. We visit the restored Turkish bath of Suleiman the Magnificent, make our small purchases to give to friends and relatives, and close the day by attending an unexpectedly good show of professional jesters organized in the alleys and medieval little squares of the city.

, September 27 Return to Rome. I leave for Rome, via Athens, while Pino stays one more day. The last minutes in Rhodes and in Greece are marked by the useless attempts to find my pouch left behind on the bus. I get home in the evening at 6 p.m.

P.s. The pouch was found intact (!) two days later and now I have it in my possession again.