Cyprus Part Theo or Hills and Valleys
Day Two in Cyprus began abruptly as Ursula called to my door, "Ethan, Good Morning." I had crashed during the night (remember, I didn't sleep at Gatwick and you could hardly call my nap on the Cyprus Airways plane sleep), but was certainly awake now. I remembered in the back of my mind having heard something about a trip up to Troodos, a mountain town in the range with the same name. I showered, shampooed, threw some toast down my throat and headed out the door. The Mountains! How long has it been since I even thought about them! Perhaps since I was 14, camping with the Boy Scouts.
As we ascended the mountain path, I remembered again how scary driving in Cyprus can be. To get up the Troodos, you must follow tiny, one-car-only dirt roads where you see to your right a terrifyingly huge drop. And then cars try to pass you! Clearly, my tolerance level has gone down for Cyprus driving. Mitros and Ursula, however, took no notice, filling me in on the failures of the Annan Plan to reunify the island, their son Karolos's recent engagement to a lovely woman named Athina, the war in Lebanon and, eventually, news from their personal lives. It was fascinating to hear world politics from a Cypriot viewpoint and to have detailed exactly how the Americans got it all wrong in our own media. For a country with no news about Cyprus, the US certainly manages to fill that which we do get with propaganda. Or, perhaps, Mitros and Ursula have radically different views of reality.
As we approached the village of Troodos, I inquired about crossing the Green Line. The subject had come up the night before -- Ursula asking if I intended to visit the Turkish side of the island, to which I honestly replied that I did -- and seemed like safe territory. It is now much easier for Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots to cross between the two halves, but that does not mean that frustrations have subsided. We turned a corner and Mitros pointed out the window to another car. "Look at that license plate," he said, pointing to a place with a red stripe around the perimeter. "That's a Turkish car. They come here all the time." "Isn't that a good thing?" I asked, hoping to put a positive spin on the conversation, just in case things turned ugly. "Yes," he shrugged, "but the Greeks who go over there spend all their money on gambling and women, over CYP135 million this last year. They should stop that!" I let the conversation slide.
At the top, we took in the fresh mountain air, enjoyed some Fanta, spotted a few more Turkish Cypriot cars and snapped a photo or two. I had forgotten how stunning the Cypriot mountains are. Dotted with trees which somehow manage to survive the brutal Mediterranean summers, they are glorious and terrifying things to behold. I stared down a huge cliff and remembered myself as a Boy Scout, watching a red sun rising over the Cypriot Mount Olympus.
On the way back down, we stopped for lunch at a souvla restaurant, fulfilling another gastronomic requirement. The tender lamb certainly hasn't changed.
After my siesta, I decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood, check out the American school and see what else had changed. Strangely enough, I was surprised to find that nearly everything had stayed the same. The map in my head served me well, guiding me directly to the American International School in Cyprus (AISC) with no problems. I stuck my camera through the newly-added high security fencing and snuck it past the ominous guard tower to get a photo of the otherwise-unchanged building. As I turned around, there stood perhaps the worst pizza stand in the world: Toronto Pizza; their goofy slogan ("Trying Hard to Stay The Best") was finally gone. To the left sat Palas Taxi Service, with its cabbies still smoking cigarettes and sipping Cypriot Coffee as the backgammon dice flew. While the exterior of my old school neighborhood hasn't really changed, I hope the education inside (and their tolerance towards anything that doesn't fit the mold of strict academia) has improved.
As I strolled back, I passed our grocery store Ionnedes (still the same), our favorite bakery (no change), the most expensive photo development kiosk in the world (with newly raised prices!) and eventually made my way back to what I hoped would yield the best memory and photo-op of the trip: To Ouzerie, known to my family as Jimmy's. Many an e-pistle reader from our days in Cyprus will remember that Jimmy's was my father's favorite hangout spot, sipping Carlsburg with the guys, and our family's favorite cheap meal out. Yet, as I turned the corner, all I saw was the wooden shell of the tavern. What had happened? I stuck my face against the window, peering in between the paper-covered windows. No bar, no tables, just a disintegrating bed and fallen paper notices in Greek. I snapped a photo, just to prove that things had changed, and slunk back to 11 Fillipou Street to ask the Lambertides what had happened. "It closed up a few years ago," Mitros told me. "They're in negotiations to build a big apartment building there. Such a shame."
Indeed.
As we ascended the mountain path, I remembered again how scary driving in Cyprus can be. To get up the Troodos, you must follow tiny, one-car-only dirt roads where you see to your right a terrifyingly huge drop. And then cars try to pass you! Clearly, my tolerance level has gone down for Cyprus driving. Mitros and Ursula, however, took no notice, filling me in on the failures of the Annan Plan to reunify the island, their son Karolos's recent engagement to a lovely woman named Athina, the war in Lebanon and, eventually, news from their personal lives. It was fascinating to hear world politics from a Cypriot viewpoint and to have detailed exactly how the Americans got it all wrong in our own media. For a country with no news about Cyprus, the US certainly manages to fill that which we do get with propaganda. Or, perhaps, Mitros and Ursula have radically different views of reality.
As we approached the village of Troodos, I inquired about crossing the Green Line. The subject had come up the night before -- Ursula asking if I intended to visit the Turkish side of the island, to which I honestly replied that I did -- and seemed like safe territory. It is now much easier for Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots to cross between the two halves, but that does not mean that frustrations have subsided. We turned a corner and Mitros pointed out the window to another car. "Look at that license plate," he said, pointing to a place with a red stripe around the perimeter. "That's a Turkish car. They come here all the time." "Isn't that a good thing?" I asked, hoping to put a positive spin on the conversation, just in case things turned ugly. "Yes," he shrugged, "but the Greeks who go over there spend all their money on gambling and women, over CYP135 million this last year. They should stop that!" I let the conversation slide.
At the top, we took in the fresh mountain air, enjoyed some Fanta, spotted a few more Turkish Cypriot cars and snapped a photo or two. I had forgotten how stunning the Cypriot mountains are. Dotted with trees which somehow manage to survive the brutal Mediterranean summers, they are glorious and terrifying things to behold. I stared down a huge cliff and remembered myself as a Boy Scout, watching a red sun rising over the Cypriot Mount Olympus.
On the way back down, we stopped for lunch at a souvla restaurant, fulfilling another gastronomic requirement. The tender lamb certainly hasn't changed.
After my siesta, I decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood, check out the American school and see what else had changed. Strangely enough, I was surprised to find that nearly everything had stayed the same. The map in my head served me well, guiding me directly to the American International School in Cyprus (AISC) with no problems. I stuck my camera through the newly-added high security fencing and snuck it past the ominous guard tower to get a photo of the otherwise-unchanged building. As I turned around, there stood perhaps the worst pizza stand in the world: Toronto Pizza; their goofy slogan ("Trying Hard to Stay The Best") was finally gone. To the left sat Palas Taxi Service, with its cabbies still smoking cigarettes and sipping Cypriot Coffee as the backgammon dice flew. While the exterior of my old school neighborhood hasn't really changed, I hope the education inside (and their tolerance towards anything that doesn't fit the mold of strict academia) has improved.
As I strolled back, I passed our grocery store Ionnedes (still the same), our favorite bakery (no change), the most expensive photo development kiosk in the world (with newly raised prices!) and eventually made my way back to what I hoped would yield the best memory and photo-op of the trip: To Ouzerie, known to my family as Jimmy's. Many an e-pistle reader from our days in Cyprus will remember that Jimmy's was my father's favorite hangout spot, sipping Carlsburg with the guys, and our family's favorite cheap meal out. Yet, as I turned the corner, all I saw was the wooden shell of the tavern. What had happened? I stuck my face against the window, peering in between the paper-covered windows. No bar, no tables, just a disintegrating bed and fallen paper notices in Greek. I snapped a photo, just to prove that things had changed, and slunk back to 11 Fillipou Street to ask the Lambertides what had happened. "It closed up a few years ago," Mitros told me. "They're in negotiations to build a big apartment building there. Such a shame."
Indeed.
posted by Ethan at 3:42 AM
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