Walking the "Road to Plato's Academy"

One of the entertaining tidbits we found in Athens was the ancient "Road to Plato's Academy".  Of course, being the history buffs we are, we couldn't resist taking our own little stroll down that proverbial highway.

As I reflect on my life, however, I realize this has not been the only time I’ve walked this road.  Surprise you though this may, I was not born reading Plato, Thucydides, or Herodotus.  Just like normal human beings, I had to learn my alphabet.  I too “sounded out” the onerous tales of “Dick and Jane”.  Despite my natural affinity for all things literary, I have worked up in my reading from the meanest of stories.

Thus, it seems that “walking the road to Plato’s Academy” symbolizes my intrepid journey along the path of words. 

What, you ask, did you read as a child?  Well, those of you who see what I read now will no doubt find my former reading lists juvenile and jejune.  I, however, refuse to let these books be denounced.  While they may not satisfy a cultivated reading taste, these books became my stepping-stones on the way to Plato’s Academy.  Without these volumes, I might have slipped in the mud, fallen down, and gone running home without ever arriving at my reverential destination.  

It is with this said that I give you, “Elisabeth’s Reading List for the Young and Young-at-Heart”. 

Please understand that however many times I may read “Jane Eyre”, “The Age of Innocence”, or “City of God”, I will always hold a special place in my heart for the following books.  They have served as milestones in a great journey and conversation.

According to Madeleine L’Engle, “The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been.”  That’s how I feel about these books.  It’s all right to move past them because I’ll always have them in the deepest reservoir of my mind, just waiting to be recollected and reminisced over.

A GINORMOUS thanks goes out to Mom for teaching me to love reading from such a young age!  Without her, I would still be at the Athen’s city gate, not even realizing I should walk towards Plato’s Academy.  Seriously though, Mom has been the driving force in my education!  Although I always loved reading (due to her unending read-alouds when I was too young to read for myself), I did not always want to read “books for school”.  Thanks to Mom’s tireless efforts, however, I did not lay down in the “road” and say “I’m sitting right here, and you can’t make me move.”  When I tried to quit, she kept metaphorically dragging me by my hair towards the Academy.  :-)

So, here’s the list . . . it’s by no means comprehensive because I probably read about a million other books besides these, but these are some of my favorites.  And by the way, I’m a “series girl”.  If it includes 65 books, it’s got to be good, right?  Not really, but that was my naïve, childhood reasoning.

• The Boxcar Children—these were some of my favorites from very early childhood!  I think I was reading these in the figurative cradle of reading.
  
• Little House on the Prairie—Mom read these aloud to me when I was about 4, and I loved them!
  
• The Chronicles of Narnia—Another awesome read-aloud from Mom when I was 6 (My, what a wonderful mother I have!).  The only problem was that we had a hard time finding quiet times to read together.  Often, Mom would be completely engrossed in the book and keep reading while I went to bed.  Then I would wake up and be furious, so I would start reading and get ahead of her during the day while she was taking care of Emily and Abby . . . good times, good times.  We could never stay together, but we tried.  My favorite was “The Horse and His Boy”.  Everyone is always like “Boo!” about that one, but I loved it (just goes to show how unusual I am.)  I remember one night when Mom read almost the entire “Horse and His Boy” to me in one evening.  It was like a marathon or something.  We would get to the end of the chapter and Mom would say, “You need to go to bed.”  But I would BEG for “one more chapter” and she would acquiesce because she wanted to keep reading just as much as I did. 
  
• The Betsy Series—You know, “Betsy and Tacy Go Over the Big Hill”, etc.  I’m embarrassed to say I still like picking up one of these (the one’s where she’s in High School) every once in a while.  They bring back wonderful memories of being curled up in bed late into the night because I didn’t want to stop reading.
  
• Nancy Drew—Oh yes, I read every one from 1 through however many the author could think up.
  
• The Hardy Boys—you would think I would have gotten tired of the same-old, same-old, but nope.  I read all of these too.
  
• The Bobbsey Twins—It was like Nancy Drew or The Boxcar Children as twins.  How cool is that?  ;-)
  
• A Wrinkle in Time—SUCH a good book!  That whole series is good, but this one definitely deserves its place in the shelf of classics.
  
• The Redwall Series—Hey man, you can’t go wrong with talking animals!
  

Some of the series above are perhaps slightly unworthy of praise.  The following books, however, deserve enthusiastic acclamations!

• The Witch of Blackbird Pond--It reminds me of a sort-of children's version of The Crucible.
• Carry On, Mr. Bowditch
• Johnny Tremain
• From the Mixed up Files...
• The Iliad and The Odyssey (abridged versions by Rosemary Sutcliff)
• The Eagle of the Ninth
• The View From Saturday
• The Black Arrow

The list could go on and on and on and on . . . eventually, though, even The Boxcar Children ran out of mysteries to solve (teardrop).  Bereft of all reading enjoyment, I set out on the Quest for Bold, New Books!  Soon, I found, the Puffin Classics!  Oh yes, delving right in, I read every classic on the shelf (albeit slightly abridged) from “Jane Eyre” to “Pride and Prejudice” and “Great Expectations”.  This was truly “The Start of Something New” to quote “High School Musical”.  Suddenly, I not only had enjoyable reading material, I also had thought-provoking, challenging, interesting, timeless, reading material.  The world became a whole lot brighter, metaphorically and literally—I had a great time reading these new books and I also began to understand the world in which I lived (if only a little bit).  This “sea change” to return to “Hamlet” occurred around the time I turned 10.  Slightly before this, Mom became a strong proponent of Classical education, so reading these classics at a young age fit right in to her teaching philosophy.

After a few years rushing through these somewhat abridged versions, I was ready to progress to “THE REAL THING”!  From “The Great Gatsby” to “The Odyssey” and “As I Lay Dying”, I have been reading these classics voraciously ever since—both in the classroom and out.

Now before you say, “That’s great for you, but I am SO not that nerdy.  The classics just aren’t my type,” you have to understand that I don’t particularly like these books because they are nerdy.  I continue reading them because they are expository in a certain way of the world in which we live.  Each book brings up a new question and exhibits a new worldview.  When these texts interact with one another, suddenly tentative answers to unspoken questions begin to formulate in the mind.  Yet these tentative answers only require more reading and thinking and hypothesizing and theorizing.  The only book I have ever found to be completely true is The Bible.  Everything else is full of right and wrong, Biblical and unbiblical, true and questionable, difficult and obvious.

Besides, the classics were written for normal people, not nerdy scholars.  The philosophers sitting in their high towers contemplating “great thoughts” weren’t the only people who read “The Iliad”.  This book like so many others was used as an educational tool.  Apparently, somewhere in the time since the Ancients, we’ve lost an appreciation for great literature because we deem it “too difficult” or “too boring” or “not useful”.  The problem with this is that if students are only fed information while they are in school, they never learn the ability to think originally for themselves and be self-learners.  Reading and not only reading, but struggling with a text as you compare it to the objective truth, The Bible, is crucial in learning to think well.  Thus, I am convinced that Classical Education has it right, the Socratic method is truly “the way” to go! Sorry, but I had to get my little plug for Classical Education in here somewhere.  :-)

Anyway, back to books . . . the wonderful (or frightening) thing about all of this is that there is always another book!  For each book I finish, there is invariably another one on the list, screaming my name.  It’s a never-ending conversation, which brings me back to Plato’s Academy.  In some ways you could say that I’ve reached Plato’s Academy by joining the great conversation of classical literature.  However, Plato may have been the end of one segment to this journey, but he was only the beginning of this odyssey to date.  Thus, by reaching the end, I only reach a new beginning.  Perhaps I should travel across to Augustine and then continue on until I reach Tocqueville.

Wherever I travel, though, I will always remember how far I’ve come.  To end this post any other way than with a heartfelt thanks to my mother would be entirely hedonistic, or at least wrong of me.  Without my Mom’s undying enthusiasm towards my education and her commitment to helping me learn to the best of my ability, I would probably still be reading The Boxcar Children.  Now remember, I have a very special place in my heart for those four adventurers, but it was time to move on to bigger and better things.  Thanks to Mom, I press on each day to reach my full potential as a student who thinks well with a Biblical worldview about history and the literature it has produced.

Note:  No, it is not suddenly Mother’s Day although you would think it might be from the way I’ve been writing.  In any case, however, every day should be Mother’s Day because my mother is absolutely amazing!!!!!!!  :-)

Also, for a fabulous essay on Classical Education, particularly the Socratic method, see this article.

Rewind: Summer 2007

I know I'm a bit behind, but what better way to ring in the new year than a look at the Kent Family's 2007 summer extravaganza! Including never before seen footage and select pictures from College Station, Carlin, Reno, The Woodlands, The Lakehouse, Seattle, Juneau, Skagway, and Victoria among other places, this slideshow offers a picture for everyone (and pretty much of everyone too--that's my hint that it's LONG). Enjoy!

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Dramatic Details from the World of Istanbul!

Headline 3: The Kent Girls Bare ALL for the Turkish Baths!

Yes, people. You read it here first. We simply couldn’t leave Turkey without experiencing the Ancient Baths!

To fully do justice to our experience, I must briefly flash back to a few weeks ago in Doha. We were discussing the baths, and Abby exclaimed, “I am not going nude. I’m wearing my swimsuit!” Mom responded with the classic quote, “It will be too embarrassing if we’re NOT nude!”

I want to know, since when is it LESS EMBARRASSING to be NUDE??? Seriously, what is this world coming to??

In any case, Abby opted out of the baths upon being threatened that she could not wear a swimsuit. Thus, Mom, Emily, and I set out to face the unknown. And in this case, the unknown quickly became a very frightening known!

We arrived at the baths and contemplated our “package options”. Mom chose the “massage” option while Emily and I much preferred the self-wash option. I have never liked massages. Ever. Up until this point, the experience progressed in a fairly normal way.

We went into the changing room and got our towels. Notably, it was rather awkward to completely undress, but cloaking ourselves in towels, we took the plunge. You must understand that Turkish Baths are nothing like regular baths. They are just a huge, heated marble slab on which one lies.

After quickly snapping the picture above, we walked around the corner to the baths and were completely SHOCKED! People weren’t wearing their towels—need I say more? Scooting around the edge of the room we perched precariously on the edge of the marble and just sat there half giggling, half feeling like running out of the room. One of the attendants growled at us, “Lie Down.” We responded in unison with a squeaky, “OK” and did as she asked.

Lying there staring up at the ceiling was the most awkward thing ever! And of course we looked completely ridiculous to all the Europeans because we kept our towels wrapped tightly!

Well, Mom got her massage, which I won’t go into detail about. As soon as it seemed appropriate to leave, we did so being more than anxious to escape that disgusting enclosure!

All in all, I will not return to the baths, and I suppose I can quote High School Musical and say of them, “How tribal!”

Headline 4: Speakin’ Espanol and Cruisin’ in the Snow

After a night of sleep haunted by the baths, we set out to take a Bosphorus Cruise. The conditions were slightly unorthodox to say the least—it was snowing like crazy! Fortunately, the snow let up for a moment so we could take this picture:

When we arrived at the docks, our boat didn’t set sail for an hour, so we scuttled into the nearest restaurant as quickly as possible. Our waiter was once again talkative—too talkative if you ask me. We had our drinks and then prepared to leave. Mom rushed off to the bathroom while Dad and Abby dashed outside to watch the snowfall. That left Emily and I sitting and talking to the waiter. As you know, I am not very friendly in such situations, and I didn’t disappoint in this moment. Emily, however, makes up for my un-enthusiasm with her overwhelming enthusiasm. She and the waiter were chattering away and something came up about Spanish. Well, you would have thought it was the most exciting coincidence in the world that they both spoke Spanish . . . they begin blabbering to each other and of course I have no idea what they are saying. Desperately wishing Mom would just hurry out of the bathroom so we could leave, I looked out the window. While I was thus occupied, however, “strange waiter” and Emily start motioning towards me and continue chattering with increased hand motions in my direction. So I’m thinking, “Oh this is just great…a strange Arab and Emily are talking about me in Spanish and I have no idea what they’re saying”. Awkward! Fortunately, it was at this moment that Mom re-entered the situation, and we quickly departed. You can imagine that I immediately bombarded Emily with questions about what was going on. Here is her version of part of the conversation:

Waiter: “How old is your sister?”
Emily: (accidentally misspeaking my age) “seventeen”
Waiter: “NO WAY! I am eighteen.”
Emily: “Umm… oh.”
Waiter: “You and your sister are very pretty and nice.”
Emily: “Umm…thank you.”

AWKWARD!

Dashing away as quickly as possible, we boarded the boat glad to be out of the way of the waiter and the snow. Once onboard, we whiled away the ride taking pictures and looking out the windows and the various castles dotting the shoreline.

We got off at a little village very near the mouth of the Black Sea. It was SO COLD and snowy!

After looking around the town momentarily (and there was nothing to see) we hurried into a little restaurant for lunch.

That was basically all there was to do in the town besides a hike, which it was far too cold and snowy to attempt. So we wandered around, took some pictures and then got back on the ferry to enjoy the beautiful ride home. Emily became grouchy as can be seen in this lovely picture:

Back at the hotel, we took warm showers and became unfrozen for the first time that day.

Headline 5: Freezing Weather, Frightening Terrorists, and Frantic Flights

Our last day in Istanbul began with a bang. Dad left early in the morning to catch his flight to the states for business, so it was just the lively Kent ladies wandering the streets.

During breakfast we read the news and found out about a bombing in Istanbul and another in rural Turkey. “Oh, great,” we thought. “This is the last thing we need today.” Apparently, there had also been a terrorist threat to blow up tourist sights in the city. The Turkish government took this warning to heart because there were police with huge machine guns EVERYWHERE! We weren’t sure whether to be re-assured by this measure as it was undertaken for our safety or to be distressed that it was necessary in the first place. I chose option one because fretting unnecessarily would do no good.

We determined to attempt the city tour, so off we went. When we boarded the bus, Mom insisted on going to the top, which was not heated.

It was extremely cold, and the snow came in torrents and melted upon landing, so there was the added bonus of being slightly wet as well as extremely cold. The city tour was good nonetheless. Our visibility was almost nothing, but we enjoyed what we cold see. At one particular point at which we could literally see NOTHING, Mom remarks, “I’m glad we sat up here on top so we could have a panoramic view.” Through chattering teeth, I responded, “Oh yes, because we are seeing SO much…”

After the tour we set out for Starbucks, and I can honestly say that this was the coldest I have EVER felt! Wet, Snowy, Windy. The conditions were murderous! At one point, my hair molded to my hood rather interestingly. It is slightly difficult to see in this picture, but I’ll post it anyway.

Notice I am not smiling in the above picture. Yes, it was that bad!

Around four in the afternoon, we headed to the airport and a long process of getting home ensued. After surviving almost missed flights and strange seat partners, we pulled into Al Fardan Gardens II at 4:30am. It had been a long day, but we were home. Home until the next great adventure. The End.

Living "A Room With A View"

Headline 2: Living “A Room With A View”

After arriving in Istanbul on the infamous “Oriental Express”, we set out to find our hotel. From the beginning, we could tell that Istanbul was much rougher and less cultured in a European sense than Athens had been. While this did not distress us, we felt a certain sadness at leaving Athens, the fountain from which Western thought sprung forth. Istanbul had none of the same classiness, but it did radiate a vivid vibrancy, which was promising from the outset.

Enough with comparisons, however—On with the story! At long last we reached our hotel, but it was far too early to check in. The hotel, though, was more than accommodating! They stored our luggage and took us to their complimentary breakfast buffet. This is where we begin living “A Room With A View”. You will remember the classic beginning to that beloved novel. Lucy and her cousin arrive at the small, cozy, European hotel around dinnertime and are ushered into the dining room where their fellow hotel residents are eating dinner. The other residents set about examining them and whispering about them, etc.

Well, that is precisely what happened to us. Granted, we were quite a sight to behold by this point. We looked like drowned rats, who washed ashore and were then picked up by stray cats and thrown around. I personally have a long history with drowned rats as my professor at piano camp one summer told me I looked like a drowned rat after I got very wet in a fierce rainstorm. Anyway, we appeared to be an entire family of drowned rats. It was, no doubt, an unappetizing sight, and for that we were extraordinarily regretful. Nevertheless, our situation was not one reached through our own volition, so we could hardly be condemned in any just sense of the word.

With breakfast out of the way, we set out to see the city. The Grand Bazaar was interesting and fun, but its similarity to our very own Suiqs in Qatar took away part of the originality. After a while at the Bazaar, we returned to the hotel looking forward to finally taking a shower! Here is a picture of how we looked as drowned rats:


We checked into our hotel and our rooms gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “a room with a view”. They looked straight out onto the Hagia Sophia! Here’s a picture through my window:


A warm shower later, we thankfully looked once again like regular rats instead of drowned rats--that's a relief. We were ready to take on Istanbul. The Blue Mosque was only a block away from our hotel, so it seemed like an easy attempt for the afternoon. Of course, to enter the mosque we women had to wear our hejabs as you will see in the pictures, which are rather entertaining.





And, of course, we had to take off our shoes:



After the mosque, we set out to find a good restaurant for dinner. Now one thing I despised about Turkey was the incessant hounding as you walked down the street to come into the person’s restaurant. Everyone was yelling at you, “Come in! Very warm salon! Very Nice! Good for Lunch!” I HATE being badgered like this! My reaction to such persecution is always to absolutely refuse to go into their restaurant or shop. Nevertheless, it seems inevitable in these regions, so we eventually capitulated to the attack and entered a restaurant.

Everything seemed fairly normal at first, but such first impressions are generally false as they proved to be in this case. When our waiter came up, he looked at Abby and said, “Hello, my darling. I love you.” We were, of course, rather shocked by this strange behavior, but this was not the end. A moment after making this strange declaration to Abby, he started STROKING MY HAIR!!! I have NEVER been so horrified, and at that moment I secretly cursed my decision to return to blonde hair before the trip. I mean honestly, the frequent stares I receive in the Middle East due to the blonde hair have become routine and not so bothersome. This stroking, however, was not at all acceptable! My entire family giggled hysterically. He stopped stroking my locks, but followed that action by saying, “I have a very handsome brother. Are you interested?” Now, dear reader, please understand that in situations like this I am not a very friendly person. I glared back at him with my most startling evil eyes—very satisfying! Poor Emily with her infelicitous brunette locks received not even a smile from the overzealous inhabitant of our table space.

The conversation (and I don’t know why we were having a conversation instead of placing our order) turned to where we were from, and we mentioned our residence in Qatar. He then asked a few more questions and found out that I am learning Arabic. At this realization, he slit his little beady eyes, became quite offended, exclaimed, “They’re all terrorists!” and stomped off without even hearing my response that "I like the Arabs immensely". Good riddance! The offense was perhaps not unexpected considering he was a Kurd. In any case, he may have been a Kurd, but in our memories he will be forever enshrined as a turd!

We returned to our hotel and slept. Upon morning, we set out to see the classic Istanbul sight, the Hagia Sophia.

Historically, this magnificent edifice was more than satisfying with its mismatched Christian and Muslim occupancy. Its visage shone with magnanimity unmatched in most probably any other sight we have visited recently. Besides the sheer size of the enclosure, we were most impressed by the mosaic detailing!

Unfortunately, however, much of this mosaic was lost when the Muslims converted the building into a mosque. In the picture below, you can see part of the mosaic, but the plastering of the Muslims ruined the lower half.

In the following picture you can see the medallions put up by the Islamic group.

Pictures do not do justice to the immense beauty and in Emily’s words, the “absolutely incomprehensible” establishment. We were awestruck!

Following the Hagia Sophia, we visited the Topkapi Palace.

From there, we had excellent views of the Bosphorus, and I bored my family by unfolding the mythological story from which that mighty passageway receives its name. Since I already wearied them with this, I shall not do the same to you. Moving on . . .

The Harem was definitely a highlight, and we now like to refer to ourselves as Todd’s harem. :-)

From the Palace, we returned to the hotel briefly and then set out on what would be our most entertaining adventure yet. Coming soon in installment three of this saga . . .

Headline 3: The Kent Girls Bare ALL for the Baths!

Living "Murder on the Orient Express"

We’re Home! I’m currently curled up in my bed with coffee and my laptop: it feels good to be home. I have much to tell you; however, I am convinced that you cannot understand in part if you do not understand in full, so let me go back to where I left off. Since this is a rather long installment of our story, I will separate it into sections.

Headline 1: Living “Murder on the Orient Express”

Our last evening in Athens (this is day 5 of the trip if you’re wondering) was relaxing, and we were busy preparing for our early departure in the morning. As you can see in the picture below, Emily was my room partner.

Those of you who know Emily will not be surprised to hear that she is an interesting companion. While I am generally a calm person, Emily is a glutton for noise, craziness, music, and anything else she might consider fun at that moment. She brought her travel Ipod dock, and blasted Bon Jovi in my ears while I was trying to be studious and read my book. I feel very victimized… :-) Not to exaggerate, Emly is actually a pretty good roommate even if she does get a little out of hand on occasion. Alas, it happens to the best of us.

All right, moving on. Day 6 began early as we rushed to the train station. Let me just say that there is nothing I am more traumatized by than train stations. I’ve never had a really bad experience in a train station, but I have had many semi-bad experiences, which, when coupled with the overall despicable atmosphere of the place, make for very disturbing memories. Nevertheless, I survived the Athens train station, and we were on our way to Thessaloniki.

Fortunately for me, Emily read her book, which was apparently sufficiently engrossing, so I didn’t have to entertain her on the train ride:

To be honest, the ride wasn’t at all bad. The scenery captivated my imagination so that I could almost hear the Ancient Greek warriors rushing across the plains to fight the Persians. Mount Olympus did not disappoint as it ruled majestically enough over the countryside.

Thus, we arrive in Thessaloniki at 12:30pm. This brings me to another disgruntling point concerning train stations. They are inevitably in the worst possible part of town, to be perfectly clear, the ghetto. Now upon first arriving in a city, I think you will understand it is not particularly pleasant to be greeted by what looks like a scene from West Side Story. Therefore, train stations are entirely beyond redemption, but that is the subject for another blog. In short, let me convey the message that we arrived in Thessaloniki; it wasn’t pretty, but we arrived.

After wandering around the ghetto for a few moments and being sufficiently disgusted, overwhelmed, upset or distressed as was appropriate to each situation, we began to wind our way into what looked like a less disturbing area. This area too, however, provided its fair share of ghetto-ish material. All hope seemed lost as we waded through what should be titled: “Survivor: Train Station Edition”. Yes, it was that bad!

We reached our lowest point. We knew we could sink no lower.

The ravenous ghetto threatened to engulf us in its devouring jaws, but salvation was at hand. Yes, I tell you, the cloudy skies parted, a beam of sunlight radiantly burst through, and the angels started singing (to the tune of the “Hallelujah Chorus”), “Starbucks, Starbucks, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah . . .”


Refreshed, rejuvenated, and completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnanimity of the edifice, we knew at that moment we could and would survive “Survivor: Train Station Edition”. Little did we know what lie ahead as we bravely faced the otherness of the Orient. Our story in Thessaloniki had not come full circle yet, however. After momentarily basking in the comfort and familiarity of Starbucks, we were once again prepared to face the onslaught upon our departure. Our expectations in the regard were met. For as we passed out from under the roof of the known into the unknown, we sensed something instantly recognizable as “A Festival”. Let it be known that Dad NEVER under ANY circumstances passes up a festival. Like a leech, he clings to festivals with undying enthusiasm leaving the rest of us to follow in his wake.

Yes, it may seem too good to be true, but we came upon a festival as we traversed the well-worn streets of Thessaloniki. For those of you who are wondering what on earth “a festival” is in the sense of which we speak, let it suffice to say it is a mob of people crowded unceremoniously into too small a street for some unworthy reason such as live entertainment. Of course, the level to which the festival is disturbing is always directly proportionate to its size. In this case, neither its size or level of disturbing-ness was very high, and we passed through virtually unharmed.

This is where things get interesting. The festival was a sort-of “snake pit” if you will. Upon the other side of it, lay majestic beauty and joyful experience. Yet to reach this celestial state, one must pass over the snake pit, the festival. In this way, it is rather like Odysseus having to take his trip to the underworld before he could reach home. Like Odysseus, we faced unspeakable terrors before reaching our destination.

This is becoming too loquacious. Let me be brief.

We walked along the shore and I imagined Agamemnon judging between Hecuba and Polymestor saying with all due regality, "It gives me no pleasure to sit as judge on the miseries of others. But I should cut a sorry figure in the world if I allowed this case to come to court and then refused or failed to give a verdict. I have no choice" (Hecuba, Line 1240-1243). I would imagine that the weather on that day was similar to the day of our visit, cloudy but warm with just a slight breeze off the water.




As always, we never miss out on ruins or historical sights . . .



After eating a delectable meal at Ruby Tuesday’s, we headed back towards the beloved train station. By this point, Thessaloniki had very nearly redeemed itself in our eyes. Once we got into its nicer areas, it wasn’t a bad city, just ruff around the edges. We tried to imagine Paul preaching there and writing his letters to the Thessalonians, which heightened the city’s status in our minds greatly.

Back at the train station, it was, well, a train station. Need I say more? Looking back I realize we thought as soon as we got out of the station and onto the train things would be good and we could go to sleep peacefully. What foolish naïve people we were. The station in all its horrific brutality was only the beginning. We boarded the train, but it was no normal train. This train was probably used during World War II. I swear, it was THAT OLD! And believe me, people, this thing did not age well! You know those people who age by wrinkling up into a prune and looking unmistakably if unintentionally scraggly. They’re the people who have weathered life or been weathered by life, whichever you prefer. They’ve probably smoked more cigarettes than everyone in your acquaintance put together. This train was one of those people.

Despite these imperfections on the poor soul’s visage, we were prepared to be forgiving. What the train lacked in spiffy appendages, we felt sure it could make up in a good nights sleep. So you see, we were far from hastily judgmental, but endeavored to show patience and forbearance. Our saintly attitudes, however, were checked by our neighbors on the train. Emily and I were once again sharing a room (or rather a sleeping compartment). Our neighbors were two very strange men, whom we felt very certain could be up to no good. They were unusual enough to arouse suspicion, and friendly, too friendly (cue devilishly frightening music in a minor key). Bolting our door against the severe reality of the situation, Emily and I prepared to sleep. Now to fully understand the events of the train ride, you must have a clear picture in your mind of our compartment’s layout.

Upon first walking through the door, you had about three feet in front of you before hitting the window and the width of the space allowed for a human body to squeeze in with hardly any extra room. Above, on the right and left were two small beds (if they could actually be called beds) very close to the ceiling, which was quite low. To reach the beds, there was a little ladder, which could be placed facing the door in the small walking space described above. As you can then imagine, one could either have the ladder out or open the door, but not both at once. Yet to reach one’s bed, one needed the ladder.

With this picture in mind, you can no doubt see Emily and I in this compartment. Bracing ourselves to endure the journey in a way that might salvage as much of our pride as possible, we hunkered down for the night. By “hunkering down”, I mean we climbed cautiously up the rickety ladder and lie very stiffly and tentatively on the “bed”. Emily was in a state of high distress over our neighbors, who you must not forget lurked ever around the door causing an agitation by no means undue. She worked herself up so successfully, that she simply refused to have the light turned off. So there we lay, still in our clothes, stiffly attempting to rest on the bed, the light on, our unruly neighbors lurking just our of sight, and the strange odor from the centuries of use the train had received wafting ever upward to our bed of woe. It is a picture you will I’m sure receive no end of enjoyment from imagining as you sit comfortably at your computer desk in your familiar home. Yet as you find your enjoyment at our expense, please imagine the sheer grimness of our situation.

To enhance the pity you should be feeling on our account at this point, here are a few pictures. Notice the damp, dark, dank, distressing atmosphere by which we are surrounded.


So we finally start to fall asleep—sort of. As soon as I’m asleep, however, I hear pounding on the door. Thinking, “Oh great, what now?” I quickly start towards the door. Now you’ll remember the floorplan I described above . . . in order to open the door, I had to climb down the rickety ladder without falling off and breaking my neck, move the ladder out of the way, unlock the door lock which was stuck, and then open the door. It was NOT a pretty sight. With much ado, I reached the door and opened it to find the police. At this point, I am thinking we are at the border going through Turkish Customs. The policewoman shines a bright light in my face while looking at my passport and then asks about the “other person”. I motion towards Emily, who is asleep. Once the woman is satisfied that Emily is the person in the passport, she leaves, and I quickly re-lock the door before the aforementioned neighbors come out of their room.

I go through the reverse of the getting off the bed process. As soon as I close my eyes and begin to drift off to sleep, our door opens and I hear loud talking and goings on in the hallway. The person didn’t enter but they opened the door and started to enter. Apparently, something went wrong with the lock when I tried to lock it before, so they were able to just walk in. With a startled exclamation, I quickly start the process of descending from my loft to see what’s happening. At this point, Emily has been awakened and is almost reduced to tears because she thinks the neighbors are trying to barge in on us, but she is also laughing hysterically at the spectacle of me trying to get to the door. The getting to the door process was literally like a ropes course!

I open the door to find Dad standing outside. He had been sitting in the hall waiting for the police to return our passports when two people started entering our room. They apparently had the same room number in the next car and thought it was their room. When they began opening the door, Dad had quickly exclaimed, “That’s not your room,” explaining the commotion I had heard.

Swiftly closing and locking the door, I commenced “operation get into bed”. Once again staring up at the foreboding ceiling above me, I began to drift towards sleep. Just as my eyes closed, “BANG! BANG! BANG!” on the door. Thinking to myself, “You have got to be kidding me!” I hop, rattle, and squeeze . . . to the door. On the other side, two men are glaring at me while shining a flashlight in my face. Before I got my wits about me, I thought for sure this was not a good sign and the train had been hi-jacked by terrorists or something. I soon came to the conclusion that they too were actually police although I didn’t even want to know why there were more police on the train after we had already gone through immigration. I later found out that the first police sweep was to exit Greece and the second was to enter Turkey, but at the time, this did not occur to me. The men once again glared at me while scouring my passport, etc.

They finish with me and leave, but we soon hear them tell Dad in a gruff voice, “Put on your shoes and come with me!” So we are more than a little distressed at what is going on out there! Helpless to do anything, however, we just sat there and eventually Dad came back. He said they took him to a little one-room building, which was completely stark with nothing on the walls. Right in the middle sat a desk with a man behind it. Dad says he sat down, the man pulled out his briefcase, Dad gave him money for visas, the man gave him the visas, and Dad left. Not a word was spoken. It was literally out of one of those war movies! Outside the building, people were being hauled off the train because the Turks refused to let them in while other people who had attempted to gain entrance to Greece unsuccessfully were being loaded onto the train.

After all of this, we lay down and pretended that none of the experience was actual reality. We got an hour or two of sleep before morning came. When we got up, we decided to go to the dining car for breakfast. Although we traversed the entire train, no dining car was to be found. We had seen it the night before, but it merely disappeared adding another mysterious occurrence to the many we had already seen.
We pulled into Istanbul around 9:00am, and we could successfully say it had been the most intriguingly frightening night of our existence. Once off the train, we realized we had pulled into the very train station where the legendary Orient Express finished its eastward journey.

This comprehension may have helped us put the events of the hours of darkness into perspective. For we lived Agatha Christie’s acclaimed novel. True, our version lacked a murder, but with our neighbors lurking around we feared there would be a murder. Or perhaps our version should be entitled “Suicide on the Orient Express”. After a night like that, the suicide version might be more appropriate.

In any case, as this installment ends, we have thankfully reached Istanbul. The story is not over yet though. I’ll be back with more.