Athens: More Than the Acropolis

During the summer between high school and college, Jim worked on two different Great Lakes freighters that carried nearly 26,000 tons of iron ore pellets from various ports in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota to Cleveland.

Even though he felt a strong loyalty to Lake Erie—having grown up a block away from its Lakewood shore—his favorite Great Lake turned out to be Huron. It seemed bluer and more reliably calmer than the others. When his work schedule permitted it, he loved to stand at the bow railing and take in its endless expanse, escaping for a time the drudgery of ship work.

A little more than four years later, on the ferry from Brindisi, Italy, to Greece, that memory returned. But the feeling was different. This was the Adriatic, a world away. From the deck, Toma and Jim could see the coastlines of Albania and Yugoslavia—two countries still under communist regimes in 1977. The sea seemed oblivious to such matters. While they were eager to get to Athens, Jim would have been content to stay aboard the ferry a few hours more to enjoy the tranquil (for the moment) Adriatic.

When the boys finally arrived in Athens, the calm evaporated into a cacophony of blaring car horns, groaning buses, and revving motorcycles in heavy traffic that seemed to ignore all rules of the road. Adding to the din: street vendors shouting from gyro and souvlaki stands and loud chanting by university demonstrations. This was a far cry from the “old world charm” Tom and Jim had experienced in small, tidy European towns. Athens felt more like a large American city—loud and bustling, but full of energy and life. As they walked along Athens’s main avenue, Dionysiou Areopagitou, they started to feel a bit overwhelmed.

But then, at some point, they looked up and caught sight of it: The Acropolis.

At Notre Dame, Jim took an Art History course led by the legendary professor and artist, Robert Leader. The class met in a darkened auditorium, and as Professor Leader lectured, slide after slide of artifacts from ancient Egypt and Greece flashed across the screen. When he wasn’t wondering which slides would be on the final, Jim either dozed off or told himself that none of this was relevant to “real life.”

But as they climbed through the Propylea, the grand gateway, pausing at the Temple of Nike, and then stepping into the open where the Parthenon filled the horizon, Jim wished he had paid closer attention.

Fortunately, Tom and his Let’s Go Europe were there to fill in at least a few knowledge gaps. Acting the tour professional he would eventually become, Tom read aloud all the pertinent facts:  Built under Pericles around 460 BC, the Acropolis was the legendary site of the contest between Poseidon and Athena for control of the city. The gods sided with Athena and her gift of the olive tree—a symbol of peace and prosperity that has endured ever since.

The precision was astonishing—eight columns on the front, seventeen along the sides, all Doric, all seemingly perfect. But when they stooped down, as Let’s Go Europe suggested, to the eye level of one of the marble steps, they saw the famous “bulge” in the middle—an optical correction to make the lines appear straight. Nice work, ancients!

For hours, the boys explored the Parthenon, the Erechtheion with its six graceful Caryatids, and even the ancient Agora below. Nearby stood Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of Zeus, still impressive despite millennia of erosion.

To their delight, Tom and Jim discovered there was much more to Athens than ruins. In the Plaka, Athens’s old quarter, with narrow allies filled with shops jammed together and overflowing with trinkets, icons, old coins, and a thousand other items. There was the Archaeological Museum, where statues of the Kouroi and the great bronze Poseidon stood. The boys were surprised by the music playing in the background throughout the museum. They agreed it made the sometimes tiring process of prowling the halls of a museum much more energizing.

The Greek people were warm, too—almost aggressively so. They practically dragged the boys into their restaurants, nightclubs, and souvenir shops. It was all in good fun, and it was impossible not to be caught up in their enthusiasm.

The next day, Tom and Jim met two girls, Diane and Marina, and spent the day exploring the city together. It was good to have female company after weeks of trains, hostel dorms, and other male (and often unwashed) backpackers. That night, the four of them sat at an outdoor café, watching the flow of people on the street—students, shopkeepers, buskers, tourists, everyone in motion. The souvlaki and wine kept coming. Someone ordered moussaka for the table. Tom and the girls raved about it. Jim, not an adventurous eater, recorded in his journal that he nearly gagged. He has not tried the dish since.

Just walking around the city was a thrill—narrow lanes opening to wide plazas, the Acropolis always watching from above, glowing gold at sunset. Athens wasn’t the serene, whitewashed Greece they had imagined--which made it all the more interesting, fun, and unforgettable.

Their plan after Athens was to head to Corfu for a couple of quiet days by the sea. But as so often happened on that long, unpredictable journey, the universe had other plans for the Overlanders.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on Athens.

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A Brindisi Thanksgiving

As Tom and Jim left Venice in that late autumn of 1977, the canals and Gothic palaces receded from view, replaced by fields of reeds and marsh at first, then rolling farmland, vineyards, and orchards as the train clattered south. The original plan had been to head south to Rome, but they heard about a cheap ferry to Greece leaving from Brindisi, way down in the heel of Italy.

That was all it took. Plans changed. Eurail passes out. Off they went.

Outside, the scenery shifted endlessly during the long, ten-hour ride through Ferrara, Bologna, Rimini, Ancona, and Bari. The train traced the edge of the Adriatic, offering occasional glimpses of  fishing boats and picturesque ports.

As the afternoon approached evening, Tom and Jim saw hills in the distance, olive groves and gnarled trees breaking up the horizon. Somewhere past Bari, the landscape featured stone walls, small farms, and terraces cut into shallow hillsides.

The air smelled drier and warmer, even on the train. You could sense the sea first by the smell, then by the salty taste of mist in a broken window, then by the widening harbor lights as the train approached Brindisi.

In 1977, Brindisi was not yet a polished tourist destination. The buildings near the waterfront were functional — stores, warehouses, offices — and many of them looked a bit weather-beaten. Streets were narrow in places, winding away from the port into old quarters where walls were whitewashed but faded; peeling paint; windows bearing shutters that weren’t quite aligned.

Many of the shops were basic: grocers, bakeries, cafés, small bars. No luxury boutiques; the everyday items, the simple things, dominated. Sidewalks were uneven. The smell of diesel from the port mingled with salt. Brindisi felt more like a place to depart, to move onward rather than settle in. The boys found an apartment for the night, one they would share with several other backpackers from three other countries.

And that’s when it hit them: It was Thanksgiving Day. Or, night, actually, by the time the group shrugged off  their backpacks and gathered in the kitchen.

A Thanksgiving to Remember

All the food stores had closed for the night, so the late Thanksgiving dinner consisted solely of some bread and wine they were able to snag at a small shop along the way.

As the wine flowed, Tom tried explaining the meaning of Thanksgiving to their new international friends: food, family, football. The non-Americans listened politely, probably wondering why anyone would dedicate an entire day to overeating. And several argued that American football—with all its starts and stops and time-outs and substitutions—was inferior to the much more free-flowing action of European fútbol (soccer).

As the night (and early morning) went on, the laughter grew louder, and that little apartment helped the boys forget about the turkey and trimmings they would have been enjoying back in Ohio. Then, the mishap.

While using his trusty Swiss army knife to open yet another bottle of red wine that probably should have been left for another night, Tom’s hand slipped. The result was a deep cut that required several dish towels to stanch the bleeding. Later, while attempting to remove his contact lenses with one hand, he tore one of them, leaving him half-blind in addition to half-handed.

Despite this catastrophe, the next day—after they both recovered from the bacchanal—Tom and Jim agreed  that while Brindisi didn’t offer grand sights or famous restaurants, it offered something better: connection.

That Thanksgiving reminded them what travel was really all about. For them, it wasn’t about picture-perfect sights or jam-packed itineraries. It was about long train rides, the strangers who shared their stories, and the way laughter can be the fastest route to friendships across borders.

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Click on the video below for the boys' additional reflections on their memorable Thanksgiving in Brindisi, Italy.

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Lost (Glasses) and Found (The Real Venice)

 To get to Venice from Grindelwald, Switzerland, Tom and Jim first took a local train back to Interlaken, boarded the SBB (Schweizerische Bundesbahnen), and switched trains at Domodossola, an Italian border town located at the foot of the Italian Alps. There, they boarded a train bound for Venice.

Now, a little more than a month into their journey, they had grown accustomed to the smooth, comfortable, and on-time efficiency of the trains they had taken throughout Northern Europe—from Denmark’s DSB (Danske Statsbaner) and Sweden’s SJ (Statens Jarnvagar) to Norway’s NSB (Norges Statsbaner), and Germany’s DB (Deutsche Bahn).

Italy’s FS (Ferrovie dello Stato) was, well... different.

Mussolini once boasted that he made Italy’s trains run on time. He said nothing about comfort, but in any case, he failed on both counts. The ride to Venice was slow, rickety, and late. Still, the boys were looking forward to warmer weather, world-famous cuisine (that they probably couldn’t afford), and Rome, the spiritual command center of the religion they were born into, Roman Catholicism.

First stop, though, Venice.

The train pulled into Venice late at night—and late, period. Tom and Jim, now accompanied by two fellow Americans they had befriended on the bumpy journey—Ned and Skinny (who was not skinny) from Kentucky—stepped out of the station, expecting the usual big-city scene: taxis, buses, and maybe a subway. Tom consulted the city map in his Let’s Go Europe and noted that their lodgings were far from where they were. Given the late hour, a cab seemed sensible.

Then they stepped outside. No taxis. No buses. No Fiats or Alpha Romeos—or any cars, for that matter. Just a wide promenade and, beyond it, the dark waters of a canal. Turned out to be THE canal—the Grand Canal.

The four of them boarded a vaporetto—a Venetian water bus—marked Piazza San Marco on its bow.  They glided smoothly under the Rialto Bridge at midnight, an experience Tom later said was “sweeter than any gelato.”  They cruised past palace after palace under a star-filled sky. This was no ordinary arrival. As with so many cities they visited, Venice joined the list of “favorite cities.” The list would have been considerably easier to maintain had it been dedicated to cities they didn’t love.

As the vaporetto eased into a small opening off the Grand Canal, the foursome glimpsed strange silhouettes—reclining sphinxes, a winged lion perched atop a column.  Squinting at his Let’s Go, Tom—invoking his best tour-guide voice—informed them that they were looking at the tower of the Campanile, rising above the impressive Doge's Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, and just beyond, the ornate domes of St Mark's Basilica. 

It was an incredible entrance, but heavy rain that day had left the Piazza flooded. Temporary rows of wooden walkways had been laid across the square to keep visitors’ feet dry. They stopped for a moment to take in the view that prompted Napoleon to call St. Mark’s Square the “most beautiful drawing room in Europe.”

And then, disaster.

Eager to move on, Tom adjusted his backpack a little too vigorously. His eyeglasses slipped off his face and into the water, never to be seen again. Fortunately, he also had contact lenses, but at that moment—navigating the slippery boards in the dark, seriously nearsighted and carrying a bulky backpack—Jim figured the odds favored the Piazza’s current shin-high waters.

Fortunately, they made it to their pensione relatively dry. Tom and Jim took a humble $10 room, while the Kentuckians opted for more extravagant $20 digs. All slept soundly after a day on the FS and Venice’s watery welcome.

The next day, Tom did something deeply uncharacteristic: he ignored his prepared itinerary and joined Jim on a “wandering tour” of Venice. 

And what a city to wander! With no roads at all — just narrow alleys, quiet squares, and graceful bridges over canals— the city felt like another world. Gondolas gliding by, laundry fluttering above the canals. Children chased each other across cobbled lanes. In many neighborhoods, he and Jim seemed to be the only outsiders.

Even along the busier canals, where famous landmarks rose into view, the water’s presence softened everything. It slowed the pace, muffled the noise, and left room for reflection. Each new turn appealed to the senses: breathtaking architecture for the eyes, bakeries and trattorias for the nose and (for a few lira) mouth, and, for the ears, fishmongers and fruit sellers calling out to passersby.

Tom and Jim loved the city so much that they debated staying another night or two. They had visions of more wandering, or perhaps sipping wine in the company of two nice Italian girls on the Piazza San Marco. But time was running out, so, regretfully, they took a vaporetto back to the Santa Lucia Station to catch the FS south—this time to Brindisi, where they’d catch a ferry to Greece. 

The Acropolis awaited!

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That was the "Then." Now for the Now. Click on the video below for the boys' reflections on their time in Venice.

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