Overnight, the news from SIA wasn't good. It's unlikely, with the July peak season nearing, for me to move my return home any later than early July. In any case, I need to be back in the office. It looks like heading further east to Athen and Istanbul will have to wait. I packed up. I was planning to make the return trip on the Patras-Bari route in the evening, but found online that the Patras-Ancona route still has seat for the afternoon departure.
Having breakfast at the hotel restaurant, the train station is just right outside the ceiling-height front window. I wasn't having a late brunch, the station clock was just not working (or working only twice everyday.) When a country's railway gets its clock messed up, it gives you an idea how low it has sunk.
Walking out for some provision for the trip home, the street scene blew up my earlier theory about the Patras ghost town. The city was bustling with activities. People were queuing up in banks that was closed in the afternoon just yesterday. A streetvendor were smoking cobs of corn by the seafront. All the fashions shops, jewelry shops, book shops and travel agencies were opened for business. At the supermarket, I actually have to wait in the line. And I actually have to wait for the green-man, because there was actually traffic on the road.
Even the beggers were out, inconspicuously stationed at the exits of supermarkets. Their palm shown to the shoppers that may have spare change. All were clean and dressed tidily, most were in parent-child pairing, none were rude or pushing. One mother-son pair were in identical white T-shirt and black jeans, and they made it work.....austerity-chic?
On the cafe-lined street, locals and tourists will filling up the seats in the cafes. On the street, that was an African running his hair-beading service. Two police officers were calling in, probably trying check up a point in law that would allow them to arrest him, lock in up for a couple of days and then kick him out of the country.
As I walk over to the bus terminal, I saw a old steam engine parked on an abadoned track, as a monument of the good old days, when there is still train running to Athen.
At the terminal, Chinese and African peddlers were selling their wares, from toys to radio to watches. Two young women in body-hugging silver-and-blue uniforms were handling out free Red Bulls from their cold-box.
Two guys having their coffee (ice-cold, of course) while away their bus-waiting time checking out the watches, without eventually making any purchase. The peddler walk off, not before both sides exchanging some angry words.
There were no sign for the stop of the bus to the ferry terminal, and I have no idea what time the bus will come around. I tried my luck at the ferry company office next to terminal, see if they provide transport to the ferry terminal. No such luck.
When the bus finally did come, it was a relief, because the temperature was beginning to soar. Two weeks after I left Patras, they closed the Acropolis to tourists because the temperature went up to 42 degree C. I can now understand why bushfire seems to break out every summer in Athen. Under the heat, it wasn't so much a disapointment to have missed out on Athen. Having done the Roman Forum in such heat, the prospect of walking around some ruins and columns in the Acropolis wasn't that enticing.
Well, you may say: "To miss the Acropolis is like not having travelled to Greece at all." If you ask if I have been to the Acropolis while in Greece, I can say I have. Technically, I wouldn't be lying. If fact, I could tell you I was there for a night. Because while in Patras, I stayed in the Hotel Acropole.
The bus came and arrived at the ferry terminal just about 15 minutes before the official departure. I think I was one of the last to board the ship. This one was even larger than the Bari-Patras ship. It has its own small swimming pool, kiddy-land and a few bars on the decks.
As we cruised out onto the Ionian Sea, twice for me in 2 days, I wonder if Mediterrenean folks dream of the cool Scandinavian summer. And, if Scandaninavian folks dream of the Mediterrenean Sea in winter? I bet they do. In the Scandinavians' dream, paradise is a sunny island in the Med, with ABBA's music playing on the radio. And maybe, just maybe, it was a similar dream that made Zlatan Ibrahimovic's parents up their root from the Balkan and moved north for the cooler weather of Sweden. So that many years later, the one-man Mediterrenean fleet of Ibrahimovic may meet up with the Baltic Sea fleet at the English Channel, sail up the Thames, pointed their 18-inch cannon at London and fired four shots. What the Spanish Invicible Armada couldn't, Ibrahimovic could, and did.
Although Greece and the Scandinavian nations occupy the two ends of the continent, one thing is common. They are all seafaring nations. When I think Greece, I think shipping magnates, island hoping.
And I got my answer from the Danish conductor why I see some many Thai and Southeast Asian shops in the Scandinavia. Well, by his simple logic, Scandinavians have always been seafarer. So, they go out to sea, and sometimes bring back things they like: spicy food, asian wives. In return, many of the Vikings migrated to the U.S of A, and gave the world...emmm...blonde jokes?
Along this coast, a european couple was getting excited. They obviously found the scenery great. One of them have a copy of National Geographic under her arm. They turned to me and asked if I know the name for those land thingy. I shrugged my shoulders, thinking: how should I know, you are the one with the NatGeo.
The ship needed to call at the port of Igoumenitsa.
Here, the passengers and vehicles wait at the harbour for the Giant Robot to take them to outer space.
In the distant, a highway came to a stop at the foot of the mountain range as land meets the sea. One of the passenger came on with his bike, in his Arai helmet and leather jacket and boots.
Unlike the stop during the Bari-Pratas journey, where container trucks got off, this time the passengers were more a tourist crowd. I now understood why the parking area at the stern is called the camping area. Caravans occupied the stern, and the tourists set up their deck chairs and tables. If they were accompanied by their dogs, the dogs were given freedom to move on the deck, provided they were on leash, and they owners pick up the poo.
The retirees were having a great time watching. Anyone walking in front of the TV know better than to block the screen, bending down as they walk across the deck. Most of the younger kids weren't really as engrossed in the game as the retiree. The only exception were these two old boys, who spent the first half enjoying their own game of backgammon.
The Italians were playing well, especially Mario Balotelli. For a people known to be some of the most racist football spectators, they were actually finding him very endearing, from the response to his performance on field.
And as the game went on, you could start to pick out the Germans. The bike rider kitted out in leather was one. And then there was another couple. Their facial expression went from expectant to groomy as the game dragged on for them.
At one point, when the camera picked up weeping German fans in the stadium, everyone were laughing except them.
That night ended with the Arrozo knocking the Panzer out of the competition.
But a week is a long time in football. In less than a week, as I travelled from Hungary back to Milan, Italy went down to one of their fellow P.I.G.S, the Espanyol.
The next day, the ship arrived in Ancona. From the sea, all the buildings looked to be in shades of terracotta.
Immigration wasn't as relaxed here. Officers picked out vehicles to pull to aside so that they could do a search. The Ancona station is not near the harbour. A smaller station just right outside the gate connects to the Ancona station. An attempt to ask for direction failed the moment I open my mouth and asked the question in English.
Back in Sweden, the Katrineholm station was celebrating her 150th anniversary. So was the Ancona station.
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