My book about European travel is for people who have graduated from staying in hostels with 6 to a room and hitch-hiking through the Alps. To read it, click on "My Books."

For pictures and commentary about our last trip to Greece and Italy, click here. You will be hurled through cyberspace to a link on Dick’s web site. When you finish, don’t tarry with him, but come on back. You still haven’t seen everything here.

One of our favorite places is the Greek island of Mykonos. The first time we visited, we meant to stay two days. After our first night there, we canceled our plans to head for our beloved Paris and blissfully spent the next two weeks on Mykonos. The following piece is my impression of that little island.

 

A SHELTER FOR APOLLO

The ancient Greeks loved the light and hated the darkness. It was natural that they saw Apollo, the youngest, the fairest of their gods, as the God of Light.

Throughout the decline of the glory that was Greece, there were still those who worshiped Apollo. In 362 A.D., After the Roman conquest of Greece, the Emperor Julian visited Apollo's oracle at Delphi and asked how he might serve the god.

History says the oracle relied, "Tell the king the fair-wrought house has fallen. No shelter has Apollo...the voice is stilled."

The oracle was wrong. On the island of Mykonos, Apollo lingers, even now.
He shines pure and bright in the morning, rising in a golden ball and racing joyfully across the sea.
He caresses the ancient rocks and startles the marigolds and hibiscus and bougainvillea into bursts of glorious color.
He tumbles over white-washed houses and flashes, laughing, from dark eyes.
When the day grows short, his farewell is mellow, golden, bathing all he touches with beauty.
As he departs, he splashes vibrant colors across the sky and the sea.

The Greeks have always known that Apollo is more than the light. Apollo is he who makes things clear. Nowhere is that more plain than in Mykonos.
With long, unhurried days of surrender to the sun, the sea, the island itself, life becomes simpler.
The ancient Greek maxim, "Know thyself," begins to seem possible.
Here, Apollo has found shelter.

Take the journey to far-away Mykonos and enter a place that will live in your heart long after you have departed its shores. Go for the light and the clarity and the memories.

You will remember the sights of Mykonos:
The sparkling white chapels and the houses, eloquent in their simplicity, basking in the sun,
Blue, ever-present in the sky, the doorways and the endless variety of the sea
The stark, timeless windmills, turning slowly above the town
And colorful fishing boats, bobbing at anchor as dusk falls and lights appear.

You will remember the sounds of Mykonos:
The rush and whisper of the sea
The purr of a cat, stretching in the sun
The night-softened music from a taverna a block away, and

The mournful horn of a ship, leaving the harbor and slipping into the deep blackness that awaits.

You will remember the tastes of Mykonos:
The first bite of a still-warm pastry from a bakery hidden on a side street,
A yellow melon called pepita, ripe and sweet, with its juice of pure nectar,
The sharp, raw taste of retsina burning your throat and
On your lips, the salty taste of the sea.

You will remember the faces of Mykonos:
The gentle, patient face of the man who sells flowers from the baskets his donkey carries,
The bearded face of the grocer, with its jovial warmth,
The strong faces of women, sitting at their doorways in the evening,
The trusting faces of children, eyes full of innocence, and
In the mirror, a face grown softer, touched by Apollo's light.

VENICE

Bright Venice, pastel city born of
Light and shimmering sea,
Unique and so improbable,
You steal the breath from me.

Moonlit nights of mist and magic
Mix with music in your square.
Ghosts of past days, proud and tragic,
Haunt your waters, fill your air.

More poignant now your beauty
In your season of decline.
Your revelry continues,
Untouched by tides or time.

Oh Venice, through the years and miles
I travel memory.
Have I ever really known if you
Were real or fantasy?

THE NILE

Time is a river, and its name is The Nile.

Oceans away from a familiar voice or any face I know, I sit on my balcony at Cairo's Shepheard Hotel and sip fresh-squeezed mango juice. Below me, heedless of man's activities, the river pursues its journey to the sea.
Thousands of years ago, it carried the first great historian, Herodotus the Greek, far to the south. He looked with wonder and wrote, "Egypt is the gift of The Nile."

The river was old when man first arrived to be cradled between its banks and the merciless desert beyond. It gave life to his crops and satisfied his thirst. It sustained the tribes who painted the dawn of history when they scratched the first written words on the walls of their tombs. Man began to speak to all men who would follow him, not only in his lifetime, but for millennia to come. Along its valley, the seeds of art, philosophy and religion were sown. The river was a god then. They called him Hapi.

Reeds along the Nile sheltered Moses from death by Pharaoh's command. The river bore Cleopatra's barge as she sailed with Caesar to Luxor, to proudly spread before him the ruined splendor of Thebes. And later, this same river saw her nights of passion with Antony. Jesus came and found sanctuary here with Mary and Joseph, who fled to the safety of this valley to protect Him from death in their homeland. Octavian, Alexander, Napoleon, the great conquerors, all stood beside this river and coveted the fabled land it nourished.

The Nile has awakened to more dawns than man has known. And still it rises from the heart of Africa, the longest river in the world, gathers strength as it comes and pushes northward to the sea. Together they follow their relentless course, time and the river.

Today, luxury hotels grace its banks. Great bridges carry traffic across its waters. A huge dam harnesses its power.

Tomorrow, I will fly above the winding ribbon of green and the stark desert beyond to visit the tombs at Luxor and the temples of Abu Simbel. And soon, I will move on. Everything flows. Life. And time. And the river. But what once was, forever was. The river remembers it all. In some far corner of your memory, oh mighty Nile, remember me.
 

EACH TIME

Each time I return to Paris,
I reclaim some brief, separate life,
slipping easily into familiar surroundings,
rushing to affirm my memories
and gather them close.
Monet and Rodin? Still there.
Rene Viviani Square with its solitude? Unchanged

Amid the vibrant pulse of the Rue de la Huchette,
Along the stretches of the Seine,
where books are sold and lovers kiss,
In the small hotel on the Ile Saint Louis,
a part of me has come home.

Each time I must leave Paris is a little death.
I light a candle at Notre Dame and breathe a prayer.