Home

I have been home now for more than a month. I have a planner again. I've gone to movies. I am busy. I have conversations. I have beer instead of wine. I forget to look at email. I clean house. I do laundry and dishes in a machine. I sleep in a bed and pee in the toilet, most the time. I think of the trip, it was fantastic. I've learned about cultures and countries, priveledges and priorities. India was a study in human deformity and poverty. Africa a study in culutral violence. South East Asia a study in perserverance. Japan a lesson in reverance. I would do it again; and again. But,when all is said and done, Dorothy had it right.

Am I ready?

I had been biking in the rain for several days. I was excited at the possibility of shelter, a roof of any kind; a shower house, a picnic pavilion, at that point a port-a potty would have done. Sleeping in a French vineyard in a damp tent in damp clothing no matter how I romanticized it, had grown tiresome. I rolled into the campground, and true to French hospitality I was turned down for camping. The campground was open, others were camping, but for some reason, according to the mean little woman in the speaker box, the campground was closed. Chit. A German couple leaving the campground overheard me arguing with the speaker box woman and gave me directions to another campground close by but up a steep hill. It was shelter and I was thrilled. At this campground I got to talk to a human behind the desk, was assigned a camping spot and told they had free hot showers. Whoo hoo, I was happy. I went to my spot and started setting up when my neighbor, a woman from England came out and offered me a "cup o tea". Could it get better? We chatted in the light rain while I drank the tea, ate the biscuit and asked for another. When I finished, she gathered her cup and plate, said good night then gave me a hug. My eyes welled up. A tear rolled over the edge. A lump choked off my air. When she let go to say good night again and pat my shoulder she looked at me and said "alright,alright what's this?!". I asked her for another hug. That interaction was my first inkling, my first clue. The next week the weather improved a bit, but not much, so I was still looking for campgrounds at night, and maybe another hug. One evening I was set up, cooking dinner when an elderly woman walked by with her three dogs and five cats. I could not resist. I got up and tried to talk to her. She didn't speak English but she "told" me the names of all her friends and then invited me to her trailer in the campground. She was a permanent resident and was happy to have a visitor. She showed me her whole house, her drawers and their contents, where she did her dishes, her canned goods, the medications she took, (holding up each bottle then showing me on her fingers how many pills she took of each), and the plumbing problems she was having. She indicated that I should help her feed the cats, gave me a can to open and the bowls. The cats came running. She was smiling. I was smiling. The cats... were hungry. I eventually said good night and went to my tent. In the morning she appeared with her entourage and we waved recognition and hello. There wasn't much to say, or much that could be said. I watched her walk by and watched her turn the corner. One by one her animals turned the corner and went out of sight as well. The last one, a cat, dawdled, smelling something, then as it slowly turned it wrapped, then unwrapped its tail around a light post, and was gone. I welled up. I was getting ready.

Home but not finished.

It is a beautiful day today and I will be out on the farm planting, weed whacking and doing general nesting activities. It feels somewhat surreal, comforting and stressful all at once being home. I need a planner. The cats need feeding,the hay needs to be baled and wow, is it good to see friends and family. I have a few more blogs to share and a final entry. I will do that soon, probably after I feed the cats. I am hoping to see all of you (yes everyone , the whole world) June 7th at the farm for a gathering. It will be so great to see you, and speak English. Can't wait!

The last song.

France

I had been warned. I had been told. But still I was not prepared. The French are not friendly, at all. They don't think it's funny when you butcher their language. They don´t think they should share the road with cyclists, and they have forgotten it seems that Americans were their friends at one point not so long ago. I went straight from my brilliant day in Italy to this environment in France. I was surprised. How could this happen in a matter of meters? Where were all my "friends"? Bon Jour? ...Bon Jour??

Final tidbit of Italy.

The last day of cycling in Italy was brilliant. The sun was out, the roads were good, the terrain challenging and fun, and, I was nearing France on my way to see a friend I had met in India. I was motivated, excited and rolling along. Every other cyclist in Italy was out as well (or so it seemed). In my excitement of the day I started saying "ciao'" to all the cyclist that went by. Sometimes I would get no response but sometimes a whole team would go by, a line of perhaps 30 cyclist, and as they passed the ciaos would get louder and more enthusiastic. I was hooked. I said "ciao'" to everyone. I said "ciao'" to the birds, the dogs, and tourists alike. I was singing and smiling and ciaoing my way to France. When I saw the sign at the border of France I welled up, I didn't want the "ciaoing" to end. Oh but it did.

Italian tidbit.

I had been biking hard all day up a pass, it was getting late in the afternoon, I was tired, lonely, and wondering where I would stay that night. I entered one of those tiny mountain villages where the streets are about eight feet wide and the buildings line the street like wall paper. The streets were not only narrow but steep so I was in my lowest gear and crawling, barely faster than a walk. I came upon and began to pass an old, bent, Italian woman, scarf on her head, sagging hose on her legs, apron around her waist and black shoes. She was walking with what looked like a large agricultural bag of cotton slug over her shoulders, her elbows bent over her head and her hands clasped tightly on the knot. I passed her and looked , she smiled , I said buon giorno (that being the more respectful way to say "good day" in Italian) and continued onward. As I looked up from our exchange I noticed three older gentleman sitting on a bench, one resting on a cane, one leaning forward past the first to see, the other leaning back; all in tweed jackets with caps on their heads. I said "ciao". Immediately the woman I had passed spoke in a loud voice to the men, all I understood were two words: "ciao" and "buon giorno". The men responded with something and chuckled. She responded to them with a " my hello was better than yours was" tone. I looked back. They all looked at me. We all laughed. Simple, but sweet.

A different chicken story.

I had been biking all day into the wind and I was hungry but it was a holiday and nothing was open. I ate some stuff I had in the packs but it was not satisfying my hunger. Everything was shut down. I went through Genova, a huge city and nothing, nothing was open. I was looking at energy bars for dinner. Ugh. As I got out of Genova I spied a tiny grocery open for business. I broke hard made a u turn and parked my bike. Inside it was like a small modern Krogers. I was thrilled, all the choices, all deli options. The first thing I smelled was rotisserie chicken. I went to it like a fly. I took one off the rack and put it in my basket. I gathered a few more things; bread, olives, pesto, noodles, yogurt and cereal, some apples and coffee. I headed to the check out excited about the pending meal. I took some time stuffing my panniers, and rearranging things to accommodate the bounty but the chicken wouldn't fit anywhere inside, so I tied it to the outside (I felt like I was back in Vietnam) and started down the road. I didn't get far, that chicken smelled too damn good. I soon stopped at a little square in a town center. A few people were sitting around enjoying the late afternoon sun, a few more were feeding the pigeons and talking. I took the chicken off the bike and sat down among them. I looked into the bag and thought... I´ll just eat a bit then get the bread and olives and and my water. I reached in and grabbed a wing. It was a whole chicken so I had to pull to separate the wing. A few pieces of chicken went flying, pigeons ran over, I ate the wing. Man it was good. I grabbed another wing, more pieces, more pigeons, more delight. I turned the chicken over in the bag and tore into the back and thighs. At this time I had it all over my hands, a few pieces had escaped the bag and landed on my face, I had it in my lap, the pigeons were eating off the ground. I couldn't stop. I had another piece. When it was all over the chicken was gone, only a pile of bones remained. I looked up. Some man was staring at me, I shrugged my shoulders, he smiled a bit, I smiled back, he said, "buon appetite".

The Indian

I was on the strip between Naples and Rome. The roads were confusing, numerous and the area was was mostly industrial or port side. I was lonely and not motivated by the scenery and I was a bit lost. I passed an older Indian guy on the road. He was on a bicycle much like Dorothy´s. But it was rusty. I tried to ask him a question but he spoke no English. I showed him on the map where I was trying to go but he could not tell me how to get there. We stood there. He made a noise with his mouth, bobbled his head and waved me on to follow him. I tucked in behind him happy for the draft. I had been fighting the wind all day. He was amazingly fast on the bike and I had to work to keep up. I thought surely could not keep this up long, and that we would be to the eventual turn off soon. I tried not to feel guilty that he was up there breaking the wind and working so hard. We continued. Occasionally he would look back smile and give me a wave onward. I began to get a little worried, we had been riding about 20 minutes. We entered a really bad area. More prostitutes then I have ever seen in my life. One every 5o meters. I was glad to be tucked in behind him for the safety though I still worried about where we were going. I could not check my map as he was moving onward, and fast. We traveled another twenty minutes. More prostitutes, more wind, more worry. He smiled and waved me on again. I followed. Thirty minutes later, he pulled to a halt in front of a big sign that said "Roma". We had been riding for more than an hour. He smiled and patted me on the back. I said my thank you´s. Then, he made a u turn and headed back. He had escorted me to my destination, way past his.

My Birthday

Cindy was thoughtful and flew out during the time my birthday would pass. She was very happy to do so and was anxious to make things special for me on that day. We were in the Amalfi coast, quite possibly the most beautiful spot I have seen, and we were in the town of Amalfi on my special day. That evening we walked around looking at restauraunts trying to pick a nice one in which to celebrate. During our walk we met a couple from the U.S., started talking and decided to share dinner with them. Cindy told them it was my birthday and the celebration began. We ordered a bottle of wine, and then another. Over wine we talked of traveling, politics and life abroad, getting older and taking opportunities and risks and the rewards of doing just that. I noticed the reward the wine was affording me but before I could think about what I should do the waiter brought out lemon cello´s for the table in my honor. Well I had to partake, and the mix of red wine and lemon cello was ...well delicious. So I had Cindy´s as she was not drinking it, and I had our new friends drink as well. Why waste it right? Our new friends decided to call it a night and so we all retired to our hostels. I stumbled to ours. As soon as I got in the door the room started spinning. I layed down and the speed increased. I got back up and I felt a change, in my stomach. So I made my way to the throne and did what you might expect, repeatedly, like an eighteen year old. Cindy lay in bed shaking her head.I did not deserve more.

Lack of Blogs

Wanted to let you guys know I am sorry about the lack of blogs. I talked with a friend from France and he said that it is common that France and Italy do not have many internet cafe´s even for the tourist... so I have been out of touch. In addition I have been camping all along the way so there is even less internet access in the fields of green. I also must back up from the Indian guy story and make a confession. So read on and enjoy.

Tidbits of Italy

Cindy and I made our way to Pompeii skipping the bidets along the way. We spent a day in Pompeii and then made our way to Rome on the train for the inevitable. She had to leave. Jojo would be meeting me at the airport in Rome on the heels of Cindy's leaving so I would be distracted from myself, Cindy did not have that luxury. Jojo walked my legs off in Rome and then in Naples. We went to the Vatican in Rome where I was able to send a special post to my Mom from the Vaticans own mailing system. That was fun. Then Jojo went back to Rome from Naples and I went down to Pompeii where Cindy and I had stopped biking, and I started again, alone. It took me about a week to get going, and that week was spent in the strip between Naples and Rome on prostitute road. That did not help my loneliness. But there was this one Indian guy.

Wrong one.

Cindy and I stopped by a gas station for bathroom duties and gasoline for our cook stove. She had to go pretty badly so I stayed out with the bikes and got the gas we needed.She was in a pretty big hurry, unfortunately when she got to the bathroom it was being cleaned. The cleaning woman stepped out after noticing Cindy's distress and Cindy hurried in. After sitting and sighing in relief for having made it in time she began to look around the bathroom as any one of us might do. What she saw sent a shiver down her spine.She couldn't believe her eyes. How could it be? She was staring at a toilet. Then to her horror, to her dismay she realized, she had just shit in the bidet.She got up and looked for the faucet handles. There were none. So she waved her hand in front, behind and around the faucet trying to trigger the automatic water. She broke a sweat, she remembered the cleaning woman waiting outside, she sweat some more.The water would not come on.She waved some more and shook the faucet but to no avail. She looked around for something , anything to aid her.But there was only one option to take and it wasn't pretty. When she left though the cleaning woman never knew a thing. When she came out I asked her what on earth had taken her so long. All she said was "never, never shit in the bidet".

Italy pictures

The Hyatt

It was about five o'clock in the evening and we had been biking up a steep pass for about five hours. We were out of water and there was no town in sight when Cindy spotted a farmer bent over in a garden and suggested I ask for water and maybe a place to put our tent. She was an older woman, tough looking, bent and knarled from work, mud covered her hands and knees, was caked on her shoes and a small swath went across her face. I hated interupting her work, but she was happy to stop and give us some water. She took me up the drive a bit and through a gate and into a managerie of animals, buildings, grapevines, parts and pieces of things scattered everywhere. There were noisy goats tethered by one leg, chickens pecking the ground, a man tying grapevines, one dog tied up and one running around. There were stoves, cabinets and machinery long past their usable days mired in the mud. There were many projects half started or finished, I couldn't tell. I was overwhelmed with ...stimulus. I thought we shouldn't stay but I asked anyway, it was late and we didn't have many options. She shrugged her shoulders and agreed to let us camp, though I wondered were we would put up a tent. I went to get Cindy and we spent about an hour setting up camp and looking at the place. We had an amazing view of the coast line we had biked the previous day, it was a grogeous spot to camp. The man tying the grapevines never hesitated in his work and the woman began bringing in the sheep and goats and feeding the chickens. I eventually went to the man to see what he was doing and he "explained" that these were their grapevines and they had a little winery in one of the buildings. About that time the woman finished with her chores and motioned Cindy and I into the only intact building on the place. The man followed. The place smelled wonderfully of herbs and cooking, wine fermenting, machinery and old tools. It was more of the same that was outside but with more density. There was corn, peppers, herbs and dried, salted meat hanging from the rafters. A moped right in the doorway, a table in the middle of the room askew and full of utensils, pots, toilet paper, big loaves of bread, feed for the pigs, a frying pan, a lemon, a hat, a flashlight, some wieners. We stepped around kids toys and tools and ducked under extentsion cords to get to their winery. They showed us with pride their fermenting wine and then poured us a liter. They showed us some pasta in the cupboard, a pot of lamb (from their herd) and tomato sauce from their garden on the stove and and told us we could have that for dinner. Then they showed us their fresh eggs, fresh pressed olive oil, salt, pepper, coffee and sugar and told us to have that for breakfast. They demonstrated how to turn on the stove, the T.V. and the lights and gave us a flashlight to get to our tent, then they packed up, gave us the key and left. We stood there dumbfounded. There we were, the Tyrannian sea to our east, mountain walls to our west, a beautiful sunset and the place to ourselves. Under the glow of one naked light bulb we had dinner (minus the lamb), wine, and bread. Later we stumbled to the tent a bit toasted off their wine, stuffed of their spagettii and and full of their kindness.

Thieves

Well I will just write about it, and maybe the sour taste in my mouth will go away. But the bike will always be gone. That's right, GONE, within an hour of being in Italy. I had arrived from Greece on the ferry into the port town of Bari, Italy, stayed one night, and then spent Easter day at McDonald's, the only place open, waiting for my overnight train to Rome where I would meet Cindy. We would travel back to Bari and start our bike trip from there. I was able to leave my bike at a hostel in Bari while I traveled to Rome, Cindy was bringing her bike with her. She was excited about her bike and had spent a great deal of time with the bike shop guys in Fairfax getting it ready for a mountainous tour of Italy. Before leaving for Rome I had arranged for a hotel in Bari and was excited that our hotel had a locked lobby and had planned on staging the bikes in the lobby, tinkering with them and getting them ready to start our trip. Oh but there would be no tinkering. When we arrived at the hotel (in Bari) we left the boxed bike in the lobby, ran up four flights of stairs to check in and get the rest of her stuff in the room and went back down for the bike. It was gone. Finnito. Stolen. Roboerto. Nicked. D.U.N. I was ready to give up the bike trip. We'll just get on a stinking bus I thought, but Cindy undaunted, (well maybe a little daunted), suggested we find a another bike and get moving with our plans. And so we did. We spent the next three days going through what proved to be a good experience with the people of Italy. We found a bike shop guy that was really a motorbike shop guy but had a few bikes, particularly this used one, that was just what we needed, sort of, but he made it work for us. He was big, hairy,loud and spoke absolutely no English but was kind and made sure we had what it would take to get on the road. For two days while he was making repairs and adjustments on the bike we were out trying to buy a sleeping bag and clothes to replace the ones Cindy lost in the bike box. In a huge Walmart kind of place we asked a woman to use her phone to make a call to our bike guy and she ended up spending 20 minutes in difficult translation to help us get the bike guy to go ahead with a particular repair. We met an English speaking woman on the street who after hearing of our dilemma made phone calls to find a store, then took us to the store and translated for us so we could get a suitable bag, and gave us snacks on her departure. An old man showed us to a place to do laundry that was unfortunately closed for the afternoon. We thanked him, sat down to wait and he left, only to return about fifteen minutes later to take us to a laundromat that was open. The hotel guy was a weird one and seemingly not very helpful with the whole ordeal until on the second day after the incident he very shyly coerced us around the corner of his hallway and offered his bike to us. I think the bike was the one used in the film "Wizard of Oz" so it just wouldn't work, but we were touched by his gesture. Eventually we left Bari with everything we needed. Our confidence in Italians intact, though shaken.

update and pictures

Hi all, Cindy here. Tracy wanted me to tell you that she is having a great deal of trouble finding internet in Italy. I can attest to that. It was very difficult to find an internet connection even at the hostels. One hostel owner told us it was because of the strictness of the police, the paperwork they require and privacy issues. Anyway, Tracy said she has many new stories ready to post when she gets a chance. She is currently making her way from Pompeii, Italy to Madrid, Spain by bicycle.

Well, it seems that preparing for, going to, and recovering from Italy has put me behind in getting pictures posted. I realized that I still had pictures from Africa that I haven't posted, including many of the animals she saw in Kruger. I have Greece photos and of course Italy photos. So while she is on hiatus from blogging I'll post some of the photos starting now with Greece.

Places to stay.

I had just finished biking through the city of Patras, Greece and then going across the 2.5 mile bridge into a sleepy little country town. I was a bit frazzled by the trip through Patras, it had been rush hour traffic and I had spent about two hours negotiating my way through the thick mass of cars, buses, motorbikes, trucks and such. I was relieved to be out of the fray but it was getting dark and I had to find a place to sleep. I usually check out the churches in towns for a yard to sleep in but this particular town's church had no yard, not even a court yard to speak of, so I headed out of town. I spied a horse pasture but it was right next to a road and house so I continued on a bit further. I passed a grove of olive trees with a bent over old man and a woman in a dress among the trees herding their sheep and chickens into a little shed. I thought to myself what an idyllic life, a grove of olive trees, sheep, chickens and a garden, everything they need. A simple stress free life. I bicycled on by and as the road narrowed and the country side opened up the camping options dwindled. No woods or olive groves to hide in. I turned around and headed back into town and as I made my way I passed the old man who had been in the sheep field. He was on an ancient rickety bike with a contraption on the front rack that held his milk bucket. He had a traditional Greek cap on, was dirty from milking and had absolutely huge farmer hands, short stubby and muscular from years of work. I said "yahsus" , he stopped and smiled and then I proceeded to make a little tent with my hands and then put my hands together under my cocked head to indicate sleeping and then began to shrug my shoulders to ask where I could camp when he said... " do you speak English". We both laughed. We spoke for some time as I anxiously watched the sun go lower and lower and disappear. Then he told me to come with him. I followed him to his yard and he told me I could camp there and when I got my tent set up for me to come to the house. I spent the evening with him and his wife, she did not speak a lick of English but he was fluent. He was also fluent in world politics and economics. He could tell me what was going on with our election process, what the candidates were claiming to believe and for whom he would vote... Hillary. We also talked about personal economics. He asked me what the average slsary at home was and what kind of taxes we paid. Turned out he did not pay any taxes in Greece, he and his wife made less than twelve thousand dollars a year. They made their money on their olive grove and kept the animals and garden as a supplement. Some years were good and some were very bad. They fed me a dinner of their lamb, cheese, and eggs and I went back to my tent stuffed full. The next morning I met him at their sheep shed and helped do some chores and played with the day old lambs. I had coffee with him, his wife and his sister who lived next door. I asked how they made their cheese. The farmer began to explain but then the wife and the sister took over. They fought over the stage, each grabbing one utensil or another and demonstrating what to do with it as if they were on a cooking show and then arguing with one another about whether they had done it right or not. One would use the utensil and look at me and smile then the other would grab it from her hands and shake her finger at me or the sister and use the utensil in another way. I don't know how they ever made cheese. I was sent off with 6 boiled eggs, and about 4 pounds of cheese, bread and fresh milk. Life was good.

Beautiful beach road.

It rained my third morning biking so I was slow to get up and out. I had camped in a church yard. Greek Orthodox. I had, as usual, waited until dark the night before to set up my tent so I didn't see that the spot I had chosen was on quite a slope. In the night I had slid down and slept in a pile at the end of my tent. As a result my feet had been cold all night as they were pressed against the nylon of my tent and not centered in the nice, not so fluffy, toe box of my sleeping bag. I was cold, grumpy and it was raining. There happened to be a little building in the church yard with a covered porch so I got under its roof to avoid the rain. My feet were freezing, I was grateful for the shelter. I got out some toe warmers, shook them to get them going, put my crocks on, no socks, with the warmers under my toes. I had my crocks on because I wanted to keep my cycling shoes and socks dry, it is miserable cycling with cold wet feet. I made my coffee and had breakfast, sat around and looked at the gloomy weather but eventually I had to face the day. The rain had subsided, but the roads were wet and the air misty. I packed my stuff, got my bike and stood at the top of a hill and tried to decide between easy highway or beach road. Since it was my last few days in Greece I chose the beach. I started down, and man it was steep. So steep that I got off my bike and walked it down. Then the road turned into gravely mud and it sucked me down. It was all over me, my shoes, my bike, my panniers, my tires, all before I could say Chit. It accumulated in my frame so much so I could not push the bike. I had to clean the mud from the frame about every ten steps just so I could continue. I didn't want to walk back up that extremely steep slope to get out so I kept going forward. I could see asphalt ahead but it took me forever to get there. Once I got there I had to clean my bike and myself. The chain, the frame, my shoes were packed with gritty mud, I was packed with gritty mud. I went to the beach to get some water. I got on my hands and knees, put my feet in the air to keep them dry and crawled to the surf. I was stretched out washing my hands and reaching for the sea with my water bottle when the surf took the bottle right out of my hand. I let out a loud CHIT and started crawling fast along the beach . To no avail, the bottle drifted away to the right. I got up and ran for the bottle, grabbed it, jumped in the air and high stepped it out of the surf to avoid my feet getting wet, but in the midst of all that I accidentally threw the bottle near the surf again. I ran after it cursing . Got it again, high stepped it again and got out of the wet zone and safely to dry beach. I looked around to see if someone was watching and of course there was. An old, one-eyed woman up on her balcony held up her hands and said something, which I am pretty sure was " what the hell are you doing?" I held up my water bottle and yelled, "naru naru...( water)". She just walked back into her house. I stood on the beach breathing hard from my fiasco but glad my feet were still dry when she came out in the yard and motioned me over. She offered water from her hose and I accepted. I asked if I could rinse my bike "explaining " that the grit and mud were bad for the chain etc. She motioned to go ahead, so I spent some time cleaning the bike and myself , being careful to keep my feet dry. I put the hose away. She motioned me back over to the hose so I followed her. She grabbed the hose,turned it full on, turned around and blasted it on my shoes to clean them. Her one eye was pointing away, she had a big smile on, and her other eye shone with satisfaction, she was so happy to help. Chit. I said my efaristo's and headed down the road. My feet cold... and wet. I didn't get 20 meters before I noticed I had a flat front tire. Chit. I changed it, getting what mud was left on the tire all over my legs, hands and face. I started on my way again. I didn't get 50 meters until my view of the ocean was obscured by an olive grove. Well CHIT. Then I started up hill. Okay not such a good idea this beach road. About 3k down this beach road I met a guy who came up to me, very excited, and offered me a huge bottle of water and wanted to talk. He said he had seen me three days earlier on the Patras bridge. He was right I had been there. He told me that the site of my bike journey sent him into an evaluation of his life and that he had spent three days there on the beach camping and thinking about how he was living it. We had a great talk. We were both amazed we had met up again. We exchanged addresses, hugged and did the greek kiss on the cheek thing when I left. I had completely forgotten my feet were wet.

Cattin around Athens

Chris and Jan met me in Athens. They decided to stay where I would be in order to spend more time together. The Hyatt they were accustomed to turned into the "Economu" in Greece. No hot water, no towels, no soap, no heat, but the cockroach, free of charge. I fixed them coffee ( starbucks fine grind on my international whisper lite camp stove ) in the morning and brought them pastries, (my efforts at easing their pain). We had happy hour in the room every night with grape leaves, cheese, bread and olives or fruit,(it was as close to room service as they got). We trapsed around the ruins of Greece and I was the sherpa, I carried the pack with the water and snacks (I ate most of the snacks). We stopped for beer thirty every day ( I ate most the snacks then too) and ate untold Greek salads. While we weren't doing the above we were doing our "Cats of Athens" photo shoots, soon to be featured. We had a wonderful time, and so did the cats.