Brother Alcuin and the Trail of Ten Falls

A few days after Christmas, when Rod the weatherman says it's going to be a nice day, we put down our phones, turn off our computers, stop googling things like "How far out from ground zero of a nuclear blast is there total annihilation?" and go outside to play.

You can hear the waterfalls before you see them on the Trail of Ten Falls. The rushing roaring piles of water plunge from high cliffs, or drop in sheets in the middle of the stream, or slip down the sides of the canyon. The path is a beauty pageant, meandering next to a creek.

When we find South Falls the sun is high in the sky, sending beams between the fir trees,

making rainbow halos with the mist in the air.

The trail takes us behind some of the falls, and as the spray baptizes us Jason says we are being "re-ionized," just like when you are next to the ocean, because all this water smashing together creates tons of negative ions, and negative ions are sort of magical things.

Everything is moist and mossy and middle-earthy, a moody instagram paradise. We are walking in the scents of the people we pass. Spices and soap, oranges and smoke, washed and unwashed. There are infants in carriers, and grandmothers with walking sticks, and all of us are breathing waterfalls. We come across a gigantic fallen fir tree next to the trail with all its rings exposed. When we stop to examine it I have to be reminded that trees grow from the inside out. I am startled to think I have forgotten this.

When we get back to the car after our four hour trek our son asks, "If a nuclear war had started while we were out hiking would we have known?" I'm fiddling with my phone, trying to find a signal, and a map, and the question just hangs there in the winter air.

Our route takes us home through the city of Mount Angel. There's a little more light left in the day, so we decide to go find the famous library at the abbey on top of the hill. Jason has been here before, and studied this building in school. He says it is round. He says it's where it all began.

We climb some steps from the parking lot and find ourselves on the cold deserted campus of the Mount Angel Abbey and Seminary. Across from where we are standing is a nondescript building, kind of squat and unpretty. It reminds me of my elementary school, or a place where janitors might store their mops. It is not round. Our son says, "I think that's it."

There is a young monk walking quickly towards the building from the opposite direction. His long black robes are flapping and blowing. When he gets to the door he takes out his keys. Then he turns and looks at us. We are only halfway there, but he waits. He says, "It looks as if you have come to see the library. The Lord must be on your side. Would you like to come in?"

And everything opens into light and white and sculpture and skylights. Books are circling in stacks in the roundness of the room. Oregon clouds float in the windows high above.  Gary says, "It's so deceiving,"and you can sense the satisfaction of our cheerful cherub guide, because now he gets to say, "It's kind of like a monk, all ordinary and unassuming on the outside, but ahhhh, when you go inside, that's where all the good stuff is."

Brother Alcuin is our monk, and he opens more doors for us, and makes us laugh because of the most particular way he has of putting together his words. In the little concert hall with the perfect acoustics he taps on the walls with a theatrical flourish. He finds the hidden panel to a secret room and turns his back to us to work on the lock. Then suddenly he says, "The Lord must look upon you with favor, it doesn't usually open this easily," as the thick metal door swings wide. There are books in the vault that are ancient and rare. Our black robed brother puts on white gloves and gently places his favorite volumes in the viewing stand. He hands us the magnifying glass so we can see impossibly tiny words from a long ago human hand. He is pleased and parental and proud.

Before we leave, Alcuin hands our son a glossy book about the library, and invites us to stay to hear the monks sing. He shyly says he believes it will be beautiful. The sun is setting behind the giant pine trees as we walk across the grass to the visitor center, where there will be coffee and cookies and warmth while we wait.

When the bells for vespers start ringing we head toward them, and go inside the church on top of Mount Angel to listen to Brother Alcuin and the rest of the monks chant ancient melodies back and forth. The music is calming and my mind is wandering. I'm thinking about re-ionizing molecules born in the crash and thunder of relentless torrents pounding the earth, about keys to locked doors in compassionate hands, about soft new wood pushing outward against scarred and ragged bark.

Finding Chaumont

When we say 'Chaumont' we say it all wrong. We say the first syllable well enough, but the second one is all Americanized and, with apologies to my high school French teacher, we pronounce the final 't'. We say 'mawnt', instead of 'moh' (with just a whisper of the possibility of an 'n' at the end), and the people that know how to speak French look at us, and are puzzled. But when we show them the name of the town written down they nod, and say, 'Oh, ChauMOH, (with just a whisper of the possibility of an 'n' at the end), I think I know where that is'.

We are saying Chaumont out loud because we are going to drive there on Gary's birthday to see the place where he was born, or more accurately, the place where he lived for a little while just after he was born, the place where the United States Air Force base used to be, where his father practiced flying fighter jets, and his mother perfected her baby birthing skills.

As we drive out of Paris the gps unit on the dashboard is telling us to go one way, and the google maps lady in my phone is telling us something completely different. We choose google maps, because the gps unit is merely an acquaintance, and the lady in my phone is an old and trusted friend. It's gray and cloudy and drizzly, and the windows of the car keep fogging up,until Gary punches the air conditioning button, and everything magically clears up, including the sky. The clouds blow apart and we see blue up ahead.

Gary is carrying a picture in his pocket. It's a picture of his father wearing a flight suit, standing on some sort of metal stairs next to, or attached to, the cockpit of a jet. His father has one knee up, with his foot on a rung of the ladder. He looks as if he's about to get into the plane, or has just stepped out. In reality the picture is posed, and he is neither preparing to fly away, nor just returned from a daring sortie. His helmet is tucked just so under his arm. The picture was taken on the air force base we are heading towards, just outside the town of Chaumont, near the village of Semoutiers. We are hoping it is some kind of proof of our mission. We are hoping it says we are not terrorists, or spies, or persons of evil intent, but only people of a certain age searching. We hope that's what the picture says, but the only truly identifiable thing in it is the man, and it really could have been taken anywhere.

It takes nearly three hours to get to Chaumont. We're hungry when we arrive, and it's Gary's birthday, so we walk down a little alley to a restaurant that has a sign outside saying 'Authentic French Cuisine'. Gary orders one dozen escargot. Later this same day, back in Paris, he will order more escargot for his birthday dinner. In Gary's parents' home, tucked into the back of a cabinet, there is a plastic bag filled with giant fake snail shells. I am almost certain those fake shells came from France, and they are eerily similar to the ones that now appear on Gary's plate filled with butter and garlic and essence of snail. Escargot is a long practiced tradition in this family, and we just might be in the vicinity of its origin.

When the ritual of the snail has been sufficiently honored we go out to explore Chaumont. We have no plan other than to walk in the places Gary's parents may have walked. We see a massive medieval church and head towards it. The moss covered door is unlocked, so we go inside. There's no heat, and it feels colder inside than outside. On the altar up front there are real candles burning, and a spotlight clicks on as I walk by. The ceiling is gray and peeling and shabby, which inspires some sort of affection in me. There are no magnificent colored frescoes or gilt covered artifacts anywhere in sight, although some of the alcoves have beautiful stained glass windows. A man in black robes comes in slamming doors, and we hear what sounds like an elevator. The cold is seeping into my bones, so we escape back out into sunlight.

It's Saturday and people are going about their business. The parking lot downtown is full. There are loudspeakers broadcasting music into public spaces. Families are walking with bundled up children in strollers. There are racks and racks of cheap coats for sale under tents in front of stores. Teenagers are glued to their phones. There are kids in out of the way places hanging out and hiding their beers. There are cobblestones and churches, small cars and narrow streets. There are rows of houses with colorful shutters. Old women in black dresses and sensible shoes are carrying their bread home in bags they must use every day. We buy pastries from a small bakery on a side street, and find our way back to our car.

We drive out of town onto a long and empty road that leads us to what used to be the Chaumont-Semoutiers USAF base. There's a set of gates that look old and unused. Between the gates is an empty checkpoint booth. The gates are standing open, so we drive on through. There's a sign attached to a cement column that I later realize says 'no admittance', but for the moment we are feigning ignorance. And even though the terrorists keep attacking France, and the country is on high alert, there is no one here to stop us. 

We keep driving until we come to a second gate, and here at last are some fortifications. There are barricades of wire filled with stone and we have to stop. We park in the parking lot that says 'visitors'. There's a young family here. The back of their small SUV is open. There's a father and a mother and a little girl. The father is dressed in camouflage pants and an army green sweater with a zipper up and down the whole front. The wife is young and pretty, with long hair and stylish boots. The little girl has a pink winter coat. It looks as if the wife and daughter have come to visit their military man. The three of them are playing in the parking lot.

We're sitting in our car when the soldier comes over and leans in to ask who we are and what we want. He speaks so little English that when he realizes we're American he calls his wife over to help. A conversation of sorts ensues. The wife is trying to translate. I'm trying to translate. I surprise myself with the French I remember from high school. But it soon becomes clear that the possibility of going on base to take pictures is slim to none. But French military man and Gary keep talking, until finally the soldier walks over to a booth by the gate and goes inside. He comes back out with paper and pen, and asks for Gary's name and phone number. He takes a picture of Gary's passport. Camo man says if we come back Monday we will be allowed on base. But the drive is long, and our days in Paris are short, and we know we won't be back.

We drive back outside the first gate and park and get out. 

The view is peaceful and pastoral, and filled with imagined memories.

We stay there so long taking pictures that a new and different soldier dressed in full camouflage comes driving out towards us in a jeep. He's older than the first guy, and his English is worse. But he and Gary still try to communicate, and it's clear that he wants to help. Finally he says, 'follow me', and he takes us back through the open gates and down a dusty road off to the side. We come to a barrier and he gets out and slides a giant pole through a slot and leads us to the back of the airfield. We aren't on the base, but he's taken us to a different vantage point on the other side of the abandoned runways. He seems frustrated that this was the best he could do.

There isn't much to see, but we take pictures anyway, and follow camo man number two back to the gate. And then another jeep pulls up. This time there are two people inside, one male and one female. The female is driving. The male gets out. He's wearing camouflage, and a flak jacket, and has weapons strapped to his hip. Female driver remains in the jeep and watches. Her watching is somewhat intense. I'm sitting in our little black Fiat watching back. I'm beginning to suspect we may have overstayed our welcome.

But then Gary takes out the picture of his dad on the steps of his plane and shows it all around. He's trying to explain his story. New flak jacket camo man with weapons seems to know more English than anyone else so far. He assesses the situation and goes off to the side and calls his superiors, and tries yet again to get us on base. He hangs up and comes back to ask more questions, then walks away and calls someone else. But no one will let us on unless we come back on Monday, which is something we just cannot do.

Most mornings I wake up with the feeling that anything is possible. This sentiment somehow persists, even when circumstances at large, or in my own small family, would seem to be conspiring to convince me otherwise. Sometimes the feeling shows up in unexpected places, like here on this ordinary Saturday afternoon, watching French military camo men and Gary birthday husband man trying so hard to understand each other, there in front of the windshield of our tiny rented car on an all but abandoned military base in France.

In the end we do not get to go through the fortified gates and see the small replica of the statue of liberty that Gary's mother remembers, or the place where his parents' trailer might have stood. We don't get to see mess halls, or offices, or hangars for planes. We are not surprised. Unsettling things are loose in the world. The best everyone can do is laugh, and shake hands, and say thank you, and sorry. And then finally, at last, there is nothing left for us to do but drive away.

The picture that is our proof is in black and white. Gary's father is not looking into the camera, but off into the distance. He is young and smiling and handsome. When you look at the picture it's easy to imagine that later on he'll be drinking beer, or something slightly stronger, with his fighter pilot buddies, trading jokes and insults and stories that are not quite true. It's easy to imagine that later even than that, he'll go home to his young and beautiful wife, and they will sit down in the lamplight of their government issue trailer and eat, or play music, or talk, or just be. And Gary will be there somewhere too, maybe sleeping, or curled in his mother's arms.

But now the picture is put away, and we are back in our car. I type 'Paris' into the gps, and we head back to the city on a clear night, watching the radiant moon rise out of the French countryside all yellow and round and full.

Gary in France with his daddy

Walking in Bucharest

The first time we went walking in Bucharest I got blessed by a priest. I wrote in my journal that he was wearing vestments, but I'm not really sure what vestments are, and I did not elaborate further, and now I can't remember his particular costume and why it made me think that the word vestments might apply. I did not take a picture of him either, so I'm not sure if my memory of what he looked like is real or all mixed up with other images stored in my brain of other priests in other places, in movies, or in real life. I think he was wearing long black robes and that there was a large metal cross dangling on his chest. He may have had something ceremonial on his head. He looked as if he had enjoyed many a good meal in his life. With brandy. Maybe cigars. His cross was swinging as he walked by, and he looked sufficiently out of the ordinary on this wintry city street that I looked at him, perhaps longer than I should have, and as I was looking he looked back, and did some kind of hand motions that made me think he had blessed me. Maybe it was the giant blue scarf wrapped babushka style around my head that made him think I was in need of his offering. Or maybe he was inspired by that one brief moment when he saw me seeing him and our eyes locked. Whatever it was, I was not ungrateful.

Later on we walked to the tiny grocery store on the corner. It was one of those days when the slush had all frozen overnight and been covered with a fresh layer of snow, and some places were starting to melt in the afternoon sun, but the places in the shadows were not, and it was hard to tell exactly what your feet were going to encounter when you ventured out into the world. We saw an old woman standing on the sidewalk up ahead calling for help. Her back was bent forward at an angle. She looked frail and uncertain, like falling was on her mind. There was a young man walking on the other side of the street and she called out to him, beckoning him towards her. The young man across the street was maybe not the kind of young man you might expect to see going out of his way to help an anxious crooked old woman. He was a strutting sort of sullen looking young man with long oily hair and pants cinched tight halfway down his butt. But he crossed the street and let the old woman take his arm, and he walked slowly next to her and guided her partway down the sidewalk. At which point either his patience had worn thin, or he had plans in another direction, because with a few words and gestures he transferred the old woman to a young woman passing by. The kind of young woman that you could in fact picture going out of her way to help. And as we walked away that was the last I saw. A young woman letting an old woman hold onto her arm as they inched their way down the sidewalk. As far as I could tell, all of them were strangers.

A few days later we did some professional walking. We hired Laura from Bucharest Step by Step to show us around her beloved city. She agreed to combine her 'Best of Bucharest' and her 'Hidden Bucharest' tours for us, and at the appointed time she arrived, breathless, and eager to please. It was a cold January day and the sky was a brilliant blue. Laura's hair was orange. A shade of orange not normally found in nature, at least not on people's heads, but one that seemed to be all the rage with the fashionistas of Bucharest. Laura's chunky cotton turtleneck was exactly the same color. She had an ipad filled with pictures of her son, and historical photos of all the famous buildings in Bucharest. She had an endless supply of facts and information and stories.

Our tour began at the Romanian Athenaeum, the landmark building in the center of the city,
just a few steps away from our apartment.

 Laura told us how the people of Romania had helped pay for it with the famous 'donate one lei' program. Her face lit up as she talked. It's a beautiful building. The lobby is full of marble and carved woodwork, with pastels and painted 'fleur de lis' everywhere. 

The concert hall inside is all plush red velvet, with a place for the king to sit, when there used to be a king, and the whole history of Romania painted high above our heads on a curving wall. And when we go outside and look up, there is Beethoven's name shining in the sunlight above our heads.

We start walking down historic Calea Victoriei or 'Victory Avenue' and find the giant statue of King Carol on his horse. Laura tells us King Carol did good things for their country, and that he reigned for a long time. She says Romania is 'not so lucky' in their history, with so many people conquering them, or wanting to conquer them. She says the time of King Carol was a good time.

Revolution Square is next. We look up and see the Memorial of Rebirth. It's a tall pointy white spire with what looks like a meatball skewered on the top dripping blood. Laura laughs and says the Romanian people 'don't like it so much', and that they make fun of it. When I look it up later I learn that the 'blood' is actually paint from a 2012 act of vandalism that no one has bothered to clean off.

Our guide points out the balcony across the square where the insane dictator Ceausescu stood for his last speech. Laura says she doesn't know what he was thinking, speaking to the crowd as if nothing had changed, after the Berlin Wall had already fallen, and revolution was in the air. She tells us how the people in the square turned against him, and how he and his wife tried to escape in a helicopter, but were caught. About how they were given a trial that only lasted one hour, were both found guilty and were both executed by firing squad on Christmas Day 1989. Laura laughs and says, 'a Christmas present for the Romanian people'.

Next she shows us the famous Macca Villacrosse Passage, a covered walkway between streets. We look up to see gorgeous yellow and turquoise glass ceilings. Laura says this is the only double passageway in the city, because the man that owned the building in the middle refused to sell, so they had to build around it.

Everyone is hungry so Laura takes us to Caru' Cu Bere in Old Town. She dismisses the restaurant as 'so touristy', but we go inside anyway and eat salty soup in bread bowls and linger for a long time talking. On the way out she points to another restaurant that she says is much better.

Laura shows us ancient churches,





and hidden street art.

She takes us to a museum that used to be a palace. It smells like smoke inside. There are grumpy old women in black dresses watching our every move. Our entrance fees go into a ziploc bag. Upstairs there is a video playing, and we see Nixon riding in an open convertible with Ceausescu, his fingers flashing those famous victory signs.

Then Laura takes us to her favorite street in Bucharest, where all the mansions are, and shows us the one she likes the best. We find the little hidden coffee shop where she takes her son to carve pumpkins in the fall, when the ivy on the walls is red. We walk through a park, and Gary asks about the men standing like sentries in skinny wooden boxes at the entrance, watching everyone. Laura says 'Romanians are sometimes suspicious of each other. Maybe it is left over from the communist days.'

Laura loves the architecture of her city. She points out a 1930s art deco building across the street and shows us a picture on her ipad of the swimming pool with mechanized waves that used to be inside. She says the ownership of the building is being contested, that the heirs of the people that owned it before it was taken by the state want it back. It could take years. There are lawyers. Laura says some people get their property back, and some don't. She says her mother had her home taken by the state, and was forced to live in a house with a shared kitchen, and it was 'shitty'. She says over and over, 'it was shitty'. Laura says she laughs now, but those were really hard years. Her parents were chemical engineers because Ceausescu wanted to convert Romania into an industrial nation and he needed engineers. But after the revolution there 'wasn't so much work', and they were in their 40s, and it was hard to get what they needed for their families. Laura says everyone had the same things. All the kids had the same bike, the same camera, the same tape player. She shrugs and says, 'there was not so much choice'.

Laura worries that the tour has been too long and that we are tired. She wonders if we have liked what she's shown us. We tell her all the superlatives we can think of. It's hard to say goodbye. Gary shakes Laura's hand, but I reach out for a hug. Her hug is long and strong.

We go walking on other nights looking for places to eat that don't allow smoking inside. We find La Placinte, a bright and cozy Romanian mini-chain restaurant where our waitress speaks English and says everything we have ordered will be 'tasty'. We find Beca's Kitchen on another night after walking in the dark past massive imposing buildings, some empty and scarred and covered with graffiti. We have a memorable meal and walk home through cold dropping rain and slushy puddles.

The last time we go walking in Bucharest is a Sunday, but we do not go to church. Instead we set out to find the third largest building in the world, the gigantic People's Palace, one of the most extravagant and expensive building projects in the history of mankind. It is a monstrous monument to one man's ego. The dictator Ceausescu paid for it, in part, by systematically starving the Romanian people. It's no wonder our tour guide Laura could not say its name without contempt in her voice.

We also find statues.

And a beautiful bookstore with sparkly decorations.

And then we go for one last dinner at Lacrimi si Sfinti, the restaurant Laura recommended. We have an amazing and filling and possibly even authentic Romanian dinner, and even though we have been walking all day, we decide not to take a cab home. We head out towards the main boulevard, the famous street that goes past all the monuments and revolution square. It's dark and late, and there aren't many people around. We're walking and holding hands. It's cold. My coat is zipped all the way up. I have my warmest sweater on underneath, and long underwear, and gloves, and a giant scarf wrapped around my head, and I'm still cold. We're walking slowly, and stopping to take pictures. The famous buildings are all lit up. There are colorful holiday lights strung across the streets. Some of them are blinking on and off.

Suddenly there is a boy next to us. A beautiful little boy with dark hair and long black eyelashes. His face is sweet and he's smiling, walking alongside Gary. He looks up and says, 'please, one lei, please', and he does not seem practiced or jaded, but only innocent, only a little boy asking for help. He is carrying a piece of cardboard almost as big as he is, like an opened pizza box, or a little bigger. He's carrying it with both hands. We look down at him and smile. I ask him how old he is, but I don't know if he understands. I say 'are you five? Or six?' and I hold up my fingers. I don't know what he thinks I'm saying, but he says 'more'. I hold up ten fingers, and he laughs and nods and says yes. But I am the mother of two boys, and watched them grow from five to nine to eleven, and if this boy is ten years old then I do not know boys and their growing up ways. But maybe he thinks I am asking how many lei he wants us to give him. This small beautiful boy walking alongside us on this grand boulevard in Bucharest in the middle of winter.

Gary reaches in his pocket and gives the dark haired little boy five lei, and the boy walks away bouncing, saying 'thank you' with sparkly eyes, and a smile he can't contain. We're walking more slowly than he is, and soon he's in front of us, holding his cardboard, and also now the hand of a younger child. Is it his brother? His sister? He's holding hands with a child smaller than he is and walking fast. Next to them is a woman. It's hard to tell how old she is. I wonder if she's their mother. She doesn't look at us, or talk to us. The three of them are walking quickly away.

But pretty soon they stop, the woman and the two small children, and we see them standing in a dark alley. They are checking out a pile of cardboard there, picking up pieces and examining them, searching for something. It looks like they're hunting for more cardboard. For their beds? To make a shelter of some kind? As we walk by I imagine them sleeping outside on this freezing night. Gary looks at me and I look at Gary and he says 'should I give them more?' And so he turns around and goes back, and gives the woman 100 lei. And we keep on walking.

Soon the three of them pass us again, the two little ones holding hands. The boy with the long black eyelashes is bouncing. They walk fast and cross at the stoplight ahead of us. We get stuck waiting for the red light. We see two young girls standing on the corner across the street. The woman says something to them as she passes by. When we cross the street the girls are next to us immediately, one on each side pleading 'please please one lei please we are hungry'. They stay next to us all the way down the sidewalk until we reach our apartment. Gary consults with me about what we should do, and then goes off to buy them some food. I stay, and try to make conversation. I ask about their family. They say their mother is dead, either run over by a taxi or killed from cancer. I don't think we understand each other. There is a father somewhere, and many other children. Maybe. Gary comes back with a sandwich and five lei for them. They look at the sandwich and the older girl's lip curls in disdain, but they take it, and the money, and we quickly walk away.

When we get back inside our refurbished soviet era apartment I look up beggars in Romania. I see that child beggars are pretty common here, although these are the first we have seen, and that during the communist era, when abortion and contraceptives were outlawed, people had so many children they couldn't feed them, or take care of them, and they became a big problem. There were gangs of them on the streets, sometimes controlled by pimps, and that even though it has gotten better, there are still a few around. I fall asleep thinking about sparkly eyes and long dark eyelashes and a smile that cannot be contained.

People in Bucharest kept asking us why we were there. In Romania. In the middle of winter. Taxi drivers and waitresses and clerks in grocery stores asked. When they found out our last known address was in Hawaii some of them couldn't stop laughing. We laughed too. Because we didn't have any good answers.

Later on, when the questions in my head send me searching for my own answers, what I find myself thinking about are not sparkly bookstores or delicious meals or statues of heroes on horses. I'm not thinking about gigantic buildings that are monuments to monstrous egos, or colorful glass passageways, or art in unexpected places. What I find myself thinking about is a long strong hug from a woman with hair a color not normally found in nature. About strangers holding each other up. About a beautiful little boy with a cardboard box for a bed. About being blessed. And about what might happen if we didn't always just keep on walking.

The Acropolis of Styra

We keep driving by this sign, just outside the village of Styra, but we don't know what it means. 

When I finally look it up I discover Drakospita is the Greek word for Dragon House. I find an old guidebook on the bookshelf in our living room and it says:

"Some of the most interesting sights of Southern Evia are the famous Drakospita, or dragons' houses, peculiar ancient buildings of special architecture, which, according to some, were temples of Hera. Drakospita are houses built by dragons. Because of the material used for their construction, but even more so on account of the amazing way in which they are built, there was but one explanation for our naive ancestors: they must have been erected by supernatural forces. There are many such structures in Southern Evia, which indicate that centuries before our written history began there must have been men who were indeed 'dragons'. 'Dragons', most likely, not on account of their physical strength but because of the force of their minds and their ability to devise edifices, which, even in our age of architectural and technological advancements, still astonish and bewilder. The dragon houses of Southern Evia, some of which are in excellent condition even today, were built by men who lived on the island before the 7th century BC and used them as temples or dwellings."

The island where Gary and I are house-sitting for the next six weeks appears to be the dragon house capital of the world.

Every time we pass the blue metal sign I feel the urge to turn, but we do not, until our younger son, Jason, arrives for a visit. And then early one bright December morning, the three of us go out searching for a house built by dragons.

We almost miss the turnoff, but a sharp right takes us onto a paved road heading uphill. The houses on either side are soon left behind, and the asphalt turns to dirt and gravel. We are heading away from civilization, towards rolling green hills studded with white stones and boulders. There are small structures and enclosures for sheep tucked here and there along the way. Our path is dusty and rocky and potholed, and sometimes we have to slow way down so the car doesn't bottom out, and sometimes someone has to get out and move big rocks out of the way. But it's a pretty nice road. For back country Greece. There are signs and arrows showing us the way, and when we reach the end there's even a parking lot. We get out and see a path with a red arrow painted on a rock. We follow the arrow and find more arrows and dots that lead us through low thorny bushes and under flowering trees. In a few minutes we come to a clearing and see a red bull's eye. Drakospita!

We walk over and under and around prehistoric structures made of gigantic gray slabs of rock. There are arches and small doorways and stone fences. The roofs are partly covered in grass and have big spaces in the middle where something seems to be missing. There are things that look like water basins, and others that could be altars. We ask questions out loud. But everything is unknowable. We hope nothing falls on our heads.

We're glad we've seen a dragon house, but we're not completely filled. There's room for more. So we head back down the road. I remember seeing a small sign with the word castle on it pointing in a different direction.

We find the sign at a fork in the road and go right this time, instead of left.

We have no idea where we're going or what we'll find. When the road runs out, we park. Our car is the only one in sight. Ahead of us is a mountain with what looks like a pile of rocks on top. We all laugh and say it's probably just a natural formation that someone thought looked like a castle. We see a path and decide to follow it. 

Rocks are everywhere. It looks like boulders have rolled down from the top of the mountain. All the plants are scrubby and prickly and close to the ground. There are little purple flowers clinging to the rocky soil, and bright orange balls hanging from bushes. The colors are the colors of fall. There are more red painted arrows and dots, some are old and faded, and some look brand new. The path zigzags back and forth, and keeps getting steeper and steeper. We get out of breath. Or at least some of us do.

When we look up, the pile of rocks starts to look different. It starts to look constructed. 

We hear bells and see sheep grazing. We reach a rock that has two words written on it. I can't read the first one, but I understand the second one. It feels like the painter is proud of us for making it this far, and is telling us we're almost there. 

A few minutes later we are standing on top of the mountain,
face to face with a stonehenge portal to another world.

There is no one here but us. The wind is blowing and the sun is shining. The sky is blue. Puffy white clouds float by. The only sounds are sheep sounds. We step through the doorway.

The grass is short and green and perfectly cropped. All around us white rocks are strewn and stacked, some shaped into natural benches. The views are extraordinary. Never ending. Stretching in all directions. 

To the west we can see the ferry leaving Nea Styra, heading across the water towards Agia Marina. A little farther south we see the village of Styra, a place so ancient that Homer wrote in the Iliad that its people took part in the campaign against Troy. We know it as the place to buy cheap wine in plastic bottles, and emergency supplies when the stores in Nea Styra are closed for siesta.

There are no ropes or barriers or informational plaques. No gift shops or ticket booths or guards. No warnings, no restrictions, no rules. Nothing is blocked off, and no one is watching. The red painted arrows have disappeared.

The three of us scatter in different directions.

I notice a baby blue cross painted on the side of a giant rock and head towards it. 

I go around the corner and it looks like a dead-end, but I find a way to keep going. There's a ledge, and a drop off, and I feel afraid. I sit down paralyzed, hug the wall, and wait. It looks too scary to keep going, and when I look back it looks too hard to climb back up. I call out, but no one can hear me. In a little while I hear my son calling mom above my head. He doesn't hear me when I answer, so I get brave and crawl back up the way I came.

Gary appears with a story about a cave carved in the side of the mountain, with an altar and a Greek flag inside. And then he disappears again. Jason and I walk past cliffs, and over boulders, and startle a herd of sheep. A black ram seems to be in charge. He eyes us suspiciously, and makes us laugh as he herds his harem quickly away. The animals vanish over the hill, leaving the echo of their bells. We see Gary a long way off waving and yelling to us. He has seen the roof of a church.

We navigate through piles of sheep poop and make our way over to him. Someone has built a church here on the top of this mountain. It is small and whitewashed and gleaming in the sun. 

The door is unlocked, so we go inside. Plaster is falling off the walls. Everything is faded and flyspecked. There are candles and crosses, and incense burners on the walls. There's a stack of plastic stools in the corner, and a large gilded frame on a stand with a date on the bottom that says 2015. Jason has disappeared.

When we come out of the church we hear Jason calling, you have to come up here, it really is a castle. And then we finally see it. We find impossible arches and walls of stacked stones. We see what might have been a well, and enclosures for animals, and steps leading down into unknown places. 

When I look out and see the ferry leaving Nea Styra for a second time, I realize we have been here, at what we later learn is the Acropolis of Styra, for hours.

I see Jason far away, standing on enormous blocks of stone. I am thinking about sacrifices and gods and blood and superstition. About history and castles and the age of the world. About this deserted place so filled with the presence of humans.

Once upon a time we went looking for a dragon house, and accidentally found the Acropolis of Styra. We climbed to the top of an ancient mountain and looked out at Homer's world. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and we could see forever. My husband was walking on one side of me, and my son was walking on the other, and all of us were laughing.