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Her body stayed behind; sprawled in a chair stained by two generations of drool, liquor, and sometimes urine. With shut eyes and arms hanging awkwardly, it sat motionless while a cigarette dangled precariously from two fingers, sending a smooth column of white up into the cloud that hovered on the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell, peacefully, for the entire afternoon, long after the spent cigarette butt had fallen to join two friends on the hardwood floor.

Cheryl didn’t hear the screech of the bus as it braked in front of the house. She didn’t hear the front door creek open, the small footsteps, or the two attempts to push the door shut. But she did hear the little voice that ended the silence.

She opened her eyes too quickly. Even the dim light was enough to pierce her skull and send sharp pains throughout her head. She quickly shut them and tried, but failed to grab her pounding temples because of her sluggish drunken movements. She kicked her feet and struggled for a moment to sit up and face the blurry little girl standing across the swaying room. She licked her chapped lips, took a deep breath, and in her own mind, greeted her daughter with the control and care of any loving mother. Then she reached for the bottle lying sideways on the coffee table and held it to her parched lips.

Empty.

With the flick of her wrist, she sent the little girl running for the garage to bring in the Captain’s reinforcements. She collapsed again into the chair, but this time far from heaven. This was the hell where her body ached, her head spun, and she wallowed in a murky swamp of horrible memories. Her father’s temper, the bruises, her mother’s swollen face. They were there, in the room again. She heard the screaming. She felt the terror of hiding in the closet, waiting for it to pass. She yelled, filling the house with her angry, urgent demand. What was taking her spoiled little daughter so long? Had she forgotten, stopped to play, make a sandwich? Stupid little irresponsible…

Then her uncle’s face, hovered above her. She felt his spittle on her face while his dirty hands held her mouth shut. She threw the empty bottle. Its flight across the room ended with a dull thud against the wall and it fell in one piece to the floor.

Then a cool bottle was in her hand. There you go mommy, you’ll be all better now.

With shaky hands, she wrestled with the lid until it fell to the floor. She raised the bottle and took two large draws. The burning down her throat meant her escape was moments away. She looked at her sweet child and reached out to pat her on the head but only managed to drag the back of her hand across her face which sent her running off into other parts of the house. At least my child has a good life, she thought, as the hint of a grin returned and Captain Morgan once again lifted her out of her misery.

He punched in several numbers into his calculator and scrawled another answer: “hydrophobic: the chemical was less soluble in water than in an organic solvent.” He looked at Mr. Jones, everyone called him Doc, sitting like a hunched statue behind his desk, glasses hanging from his nose like a rock climber seconds away from a fall. They were the only two left in the room, maybe even the school. Doc was probably thinking about how much he’d rather be flying down the sunny road in his vintage 68 Mustang.

Henry liked Doc and wanted to be the top student, but he wasn’t. He was smart enough for it but just not dedicated enough. Which is exactly why the flu bug so often struck on the day of an exam. It let him procrastinate one extra day, which he hated to do but what could the teachers do about it? Nothing. He’d get an extra study day and the knowledge the deadline was passed finally gave him the motivation to crack open his books. It was stupid. He hated it. But this time had been different. It was a tough chapter and he knew the material and was ready. And now Doc would think he had faked it for an extra study day. It wasn’t fair. Or worse, he might think he had hooked up with Sam to get a preview of the exam. But he hadn’t.

Doc grunted and said, “I’ll be right back,” and then vanished into the halls of Jackson High School.

Henry turned back to the exam and a queasy feeling rose from his stomach that had nothing to do with being sick. Behind him on the wall was the answer to every question on the test. Doc always posted the answers after the day of the exam and today would be no different. Henry hadn’t seen them, but he knew they were there. Taped to the wall where everyone could look and curse themselves for missing the rogue oxygen atom or forgotten compound acid. And now Henry was alone in the room with them.

Doc was away for at least fifteen minutes, Henry finished the exam with five minutes to spare and was sitting waiting for Doc on his return.

“Done already?” Doc said.

Henry nodded, defeated, stood, and dropped the test on the front desk. Maybe he should have purposely gotten an answer wrong. But he couldn’t. He knew every answer fair and square. He’d studied hard and wished he could have taken it with the rest of the class yesterday.

“I’ll have it back for you in the morning. Don’t feel bad though if you did poorly, the high was only 70%.” Doc said with a wink.

Now Henry was the frozen statue, not wanting to leave without offering an explanation. What words could explain and defuse the suspicions that would invade Docs mind once the test was graded? There were none. He nodded and left the room. Tomorrow Doc and the rest of the class would all see him as a cheater.

After a friendly greeting, he told me that he was disappointed in me because a small amount of rust was on the gun when he got it back. On the surface, it is a simple situation. Any mature, responsible person would have responded with a sincere apology and asked what could be done to make it right.

Part of my problem was that I admired Bishop Coulter. He had been my neighbor for years, my Bishop, and had hired me on many occasions to work in his yard or in his business. One of my greatest fears as a teenager was disappointing the adults in my life who were important to me; teachers, parents, and clergy. His words that day sent my mind spinning and my heart racing. It was so upsetting, I even remember fighting back tears as I stood there mumbling who-knows-what back to him. It was like all of the sudden I was only five years old. Yeah, I had issues. I truly was unable to respond and therefore, irresponsible. For years afterwards, every time I saw him I remembered the rusty gun, K-Mart, and how I had let him down. I also figured every time he saw me he was remembering the same thing.

What he must have expected was an expression of remorse and an offer to make it right. I am quite certain the level of remorse I experienced far exceeded what he expected or wanted. The irony is that he saw none of it. In my panic and discomfort I probably avoided eye contact, swallowed several times, and offered what appeared to be a hollow apology before I bolted for the cash register.

The interesting thing to me, as I have looked back, is that I lacked an understanding of my feelings and the courage to face up to a difficult confrontation. It wasn’t that I lacked a desire to be responsible; I lacked the skills to respond. In addition, my unrealistic fears and ridiculous goals of perfection blocked a healthy reaction. I was like a deer in the headlights and ran for the trees.

I made similar blunders with girls I dated in high school and early college. I said things that were not congruent what I wanted. I lacked an understanding of myself and the social skills to communicate. Looking back, I don’t feel stress and anxiety at those situations. I forgive myself, but it took a few years. I was a teenager. Isn’t that what being a teenager is all about? Making mistakes and then spending the rest of our lives learning from them?

I’ve tried to address this concept with my kids. I always hoped they could build stronger emotional skills at earlier ages…and I believe they have. But growth is a personal thing. They are going to struggle and make mistakes during their lives. At least my kids seem more balanced than I was as a dazed and confused teenager. They face up to difficult situations, speak their minds, and make amends when required, for the most part. I’ve had difficult talks with each of them. Discussions I would have rather avoided and that forced me to drum up my own courage as I bought up topics and expressed feelings. I usually feel like bumbling fool, but I push through, they push through, and the end result is generally good. The failure isn’t in the attempt (although sometimes it feels like it). The real failure is in the lack of honest expression.

The correct thing to do in K-Mart would have been to look Bishop Coulter in the eyes and apologize. No beating myself up. No feelings of shame. Just a sincere expression of sorrow backed by the knowledge that everyone is entitled to mistakes. Then an attempt and a willingness to make the sacrifices required of me to make it right. It is so simple, yet was so beyond my capabilities at the time. No tricks or gimmicks, just something I’d call respondability. A combination of responsibility, honesty, and courage.

I may have failed in that moment, years ago, but the experience has helped me time and time again…which I suppose that makes the experience a success. When I encounter times in my life now where I feel like I want to run for the cash register, I try and tap into those core attributes. Am I being responsible, honest, and courageous? Although…sometimes I still feel a bit dazed and confused, it usually helps me navigate through even the toughest situations.

Our hotel has been noisy, every single night. People talking, running up and down the stairs, doors opening and closing…all night long. But when somebody started banging on our door in the middle of the night last night, it was too much. The first time it happened I was groggy and by the time I woke up, they had stopped. I was miffed because it had taken me at least one frustrating hour to fall asleep. I figured some drunk fool had forgotten a room number. I was almost asleep when it happened again. BANG BANG BANG! This pissed me off and I yelled out, “WHAT?!?!” in a very unfriendly tone. It stopped and I heard them knock on a few other doors. I’m not sure what it was about but I wasn’t about to open the door in the middle of the night for anyone, especially after our walk through druggieville the day before. That’s not a picture of our hotel, by the way. But if it was quieter I might have stayed there even if it did look like a haunted house.

We slept in as long we could and still get breakfast and then caught the metro to Syntagma Square. The 10am Sunday changing of the guard is a big deal with a marching band and a full platoon of Evzones dressed in their traditional kilts, tights, and pom-pommed shoes. These are the elite guards and world famous for not only their attire but for their unique march which involves many slow, high-sweeping choreographed kicks.

The experience clashed a bit with my own schema about what makes an elite presidential guard. I drum up visions of soldiers in fatigues with M16s resting across their chests or a mysterious looking man in a black suit with a curly cord hanging from his ear. My imagination is even wide enough to consider a hooded ninja or pierced and painted tribal warrior. But tights and pom-poms stretched my mind and I had to remind myself of the respect and reverence these men have and deserve here in Greece. I can, however, understand Mikayla’s difficulty at suppressing a giggle or two. Tights and pompoms are not what either of us has been raised to see as fierce. But this is one reason I love to travel: different cultures, ideas, and perspectives.

Despite the unusual appearance of their uniforms, I did recognize the stern, stoic, and hardened gaze they each possessed. It was the look of a somber warrior. Their expressions conveyed a fierce attitude filled with pride, determination, and competence. They stood at full attention without so much as a second thought to the gawking foreigners. I’m sure more than a few observers have found the scene unusual but I get the impression that these soldiers have a level of internal dignity and responsibility that, along with respect for their country and its history, easily supersede concerns of what foreigners may or may not think.

After the changing of the guards and the parade marched off, we hopped on the metro to the Acropolis. North of the Acropolis is the Plaka. Walking these narrow streets is like exploring a labyrinth made of shops, restaurants, and galleries. We’ve spent hours (and many Euros) each day here meandering for miles (I mean kilometers) through what feels like hundreds of different shops selling just about anything you would want to bring home from Greece; jewelry, sculptures, paintings, leather products, knick knacks, paddy whacks, and dog bones…it’s all there.

Normally, the only places where I actually enjoy shopping are Costco, Bestbuy, and Fry’s. And since most of the things I usually want are too expensive to just go out and buy on a whim, I usually don’t even like those places. I just get reminded of all the things I don’t have that I wish I did. But I loved the Plaka. The narrow roads were clean, friendly, and just plain fun to walk around. The food was good. The people were friendly. And the shops had a variety of inexpensive/expensive items to cater to the masses. It was fun and interesting and even though we saw some of the same places every day, it never got boring.

On the north end of the Plaka is where most of the restaurants and the flea market are located. The flea market is where you’ll find the “non-touristy” type things. Take an outlet mall in one hand, a swap meet in the other, and smash them together and you have the Athens Flea Market. Plenty of shoes and clothing stores to appeal to all but the extreme posh who only buy Armani and real Gucci bags (those places are a few blocks away). Although most of the Flea Market does resemble the Outswap Mall you created moments ago, if you walk far enough you will find more typical flea market items, such as old War helmets, records, used furniture, and the like.

We grabbed some lunch, followed a lot of noise and music to the park where a breast cancer run was in progress—and a bird dropped a messy greeting onto my leg (I’m pretty sure it was on purpose). Then, knowing it was our last time at the Plaka, we said goodbye to our favorite area and journeyed north to the Archeology Museum.

One of the metro lines was down and we ended up spending too much time trying to get to the museum by shuttling around on underground trains. We should have just walked the entire route instead of just half of it (we gave up on the metro at Omonoia square). But, sweaty and a little tired, we finally arrived.

The National Archaeological Museum in Athens is considered to be one of the greatest museums in the world. At least that is what the Wikipedia article says (and I have to agree). The place is full of artwork and pieces of history that have been pivotal in defining many aspects of western culture. My favorite piece was the Artemision Bronze, full figured statue of Poseidon, brother of Zeus. But it depends on who you talk to. Some historians say this was Zeus and rather than a trident in his upraised hands, he originally held a thunderbolt. Most, however, concur that it was meant to be Poseidon. I’ve mentioned in earlier blogs how fascinating it is to be surrounded by so much history so I won’t go into it again here. My one regret is (and it is typical for me in a large museum like this) that I ran out of steam before I get to the end. We took a break in the cafeteria for a snack that helped, but even with that, I couldn’t keep up my enthusiasm. We moved pretty fast through the last exhibits so we could get our tired legs back to the hotel.

We hoofed it back to the hotel and, even though we were tired from walking decided to extend the journey a few extra blocks to hit the Spar (a grocery store). Well, that didn’t turn out so well. We got there and it was closed (Sunday). We had to settle for an overpriced ice cream bar from a street vendor.

I collapsed on my bed and relaxed for a few minutes with my ice cream, then packed up my stuff to prepare for our 3am departure. Before dusk we went up to the roof and watched the sunset to the sounds of cars accelerating, horns wailing, and the swoosh of the busses braking. As the sky became dark, the lights lit the Parthenon. I wonder if they lit it with fires and candles 2,500 years ago.

I’m packed, ready to go home. All that planning. All that saving. All that stressing….it’s all over now. All of it, done. All my trips with the kids, done.

I have gained a deep respect for the Ancient Greeks. I like how they lived and the value they placed on physical, mental, and spiritual growth. They introduced democracy to the world and changed the course of mankind in many ways. I wouldn’t have picked Greece but am thankful Mikayla did. So much of the culture and history here blends with how I think and who I am. It has been a wonderful experience, a fun trip, and I hope I make it back someday with Sandi.

If you didn’t start reading on Day 1, you might want to start from the beginning.

For the first time on our trip, Greece welcomed us to a new day with cloudy skies. We walked to the corner in a light drizzle and dropped below street level to catch the metro. The red-line carried us to the Acropolis stop and as we climbed up the stairway to the surface, it was apparent to me that Poseidon had released a can of whoop ass on the city. I knew instantly it was my fault. This was his revenge.

The rain pounded the city in a constant chaotic roar. Water trickled down the stairs that climbed up to the street level like it was a small riverbed. Thunder rolled through the sky like Zeus and Poseidon were racing in massive chariots laughing heartily at my plans to explore the Acropolis.

The good thing is that it wasn’t cold, but we were getting soaked fast. We ran for the protection of an awning and I looked for an umbrella at the magazine stand. I heard a lady a couple stores down yell, “these are the best deal,” and looked to see her holding up two umbrellas to show a man standing close to me. He put the umbrella he was holding back on the magazine stand and ran through the downpour to her. I did the same. Why reinvent the wheel?

We huddled together under our new, flimsy, pricy piece of refuge from the angry Gods and walked up the street. I was feeling a little discouraged, touring the Acropolis in this would be miserable. But I was determined not to let Poseidon get the best of me.

“Lets do the Acropolis Museum first, maybe the rain will calm down,” I said, and pointed. We walked into the museum and up to the cashier. My plan was to buy the Acropolis ticket, which got you into everything for a good deal. But they didn’t sell it here, only the Acropolis sold it. I gave Mikayla 5 Euros and told her to get a coffee at the Museum Café, and I ran up the road to get the tickets.

The rain made my quick trip up the road seem lot further than it really was. Then I couldn’t find where to buy tickets. I made the mistake of asking a tour Guide, who proceeded to tell me I really should have a personal Guide for the Acropolis. Here is a shortened version of our conversation.

Me (yelling above the rain): “I’m not going through it right now, maybe the rain will calm down this afternoon or tomorrow.”

Her (yelling back): “Oh no, it won’t. Once it starts like this, it rains for days. You might as well do it now…this is great weather for the Acropolis.” (Said through her drenched hair and drops of water streaking down her face.)

Me: “Well, I’m doing the museum first anyways, my daughter is waiting down there for me.”

Her: “Oh perfect, I do the Museum tour too, how old is your daughter?”

Me (realizing this is going nowhere yet digging myself in deeper): “14.”

Her: “Oh, that is the perfect age for a guided tour, she will learn so much.”

Me (As I walk away like somebody who feels like 60 Euros is a bit overpriced for a short tour): “No Thanks.”

I finally found out why I couldn’t find a place to buy a ticket. It just so happened that this weekend, the Acropolis was free. They weren’t selling tickets and, therefore, I couldn’t buy the pass I wanted to. I trudged back to the Museum and saw that I wasn’t the only one with the “see the museum/avoid the rain” idea. A massive line now extended out the front doors, past the awning, and out into the  rain. You win, Poseidon, I surrender!

After another thirty minutes, I had our tickets and had tracked down Mikayla who had actually enjoyed the extended time sitting in the café with her coffee. We checked our bags and toured the Museum.

First we watched a movie that showed the slow destruction of the Parthenon (also known as the Temple of Athena) over the past millennia. It was heart breaking to see the looters over the years. In 1687 the Turks stored their gunpowder in it and it was hit by a “stray” Venetian cannonball that obliterated it . Nearly 2,500 years old and it was just a mere 300 years ago that it encountered the majority of its destruction.

According to what I heard, many of the ancient Acropolis items were “stolen” years ago and are currently on display in England museums. Greece has asked for them back but was told they didn’t have a museum worthy of them. This new gorgeous museum (opened in 2009) was built in part to provide such a place, but now Greece has been told no because then Egypt and Iran would want their stuff back too and England doesn’t want to set a precedence. I tend to side with the Greeks but then wonder if Greece has offered to return the Egyptian items they have in their own archeological museum.

Some of the items in the Acropolis are imitations and the originals are in the Acropolis Museum. It is filled with sculptures and treasures that once filled the sacred site above Athens (although can’t show you because photography is not allowed). The top floor is really cool because the glass windows offer a full view of the Acropolis. The top floor also recreates the top of the Parthenon and you can walk around it and get a close up view of the statues and carvings that decorated the top of the temple. Many of the pieces are missing, I’m assuming because most of the relics were destroyed or lost forever. It appears that generic looking placeholders are used for items that have been found but currently reside in other museums (like the ones in England).

Poseidon must have accepted my surrender because by the time we left the museum the rain had stopped. Outside, Mikayla had to take off her flip flops cause the marble was so slick. We hiked up and around the hill and climbed the steps that passed through the pillars marking the entrance to the limestone plateau otherwise known as the Acropolis. This refers to the entire area on and around the plateau. Within the Acropolis are many temples, the most famous of which is the Parthenon (or Temple of Athena, the goddess of wisdom).

  We hiked all around the jagged rocks (carefully avoiding the puddles) up on the top of the plateau. It was awesome to stand in the shadow of the Parthenon. In addition to a close up view of the temples, the Acropolis offers a panoramic view of the city. Below the cliffs are views of two ancient theatres, the Plaka, Syntagma Square, National Gardens, Ancient Agora, and various temples and churches. I tried to imagine what it would have been like 2,500 years ago and the mythology, spirituality, philosophy, controversy, and destruction over the years. I regretted how little I really knew. My lack of education limits my ability to understand the significance of Ancient Athena on not only western civilization, but on my own life. My fascination really just comes from my ignorance rather than a deep understanding of history. I’m like a child dazzled by the flashing lights and entertained by glitzy tourist attractions. That isn’t a bad thing, the process itself is an education and fuels my desire to learn more. But I definitely have a lot to learn.

We descended the hill and stopped for a snack on a park bench. We devoured the fruit I had snagged from the breakfast table along with some bread and jerky. Afterwards, we explored yet another set of ruins, Ancient Agora. This is where Greeks and later, Romans, bartered, preached, and worshipped. Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato taught philosophies that helped change the course of history. Here, the apostle Paul preached early Christianity. We walked through the reconstructed forum, old churches, and well preserved temple.

We took another stroll through the Plaka and Flea Market (places I will explain in detail on Day 14) and had a super yummy gyro for lunch. Grabbing a gyro on the run is the way to go if you only want to spend a few bucks for a tasty lunch. Look for a rotating meat column close to a cash register. Find the guy with the big knife and place your order. He’ll shave off several strips of meat and stuff them into a pita along with tomatoes, onion, and tzatziki sauce (made with yogurt, cucumbers, and garlic). I should have eaten more of these while I was there, stuffed my face with them until I was sick and never wanted them again in my life. Maybe if I had done that, I wouldn’t be craving one so bad right now.

  We walked through the park and stopped at the Temple of Olympian Zeus. Only a few pillars remain and Rick Steve’s description of the fallen temple as a bunch of bottle caps is very accurate. We sat on a bench for at least an hour and I grilled Mikayla on Greek history and mythology. Who is the God of War and what is his Roman name, which God was born out of Zeus’ head, what ancient Greek peaceful nation of merchant traders vanished without a trace, what Greek Isle may hide the lost city of Atlantis, where did that turtle come from? Huh? Turtle? I never would have expected to see a turtle crawling around in the middle of Athens, but one zipped on past us (as fast as a turtle can zip) while we sat there.

It was late in the afternoon and we decided to spend our time walking back to the hotel instead of riding the metro. We passed through the market where meat is hacked up and cut on demand. Mikayla didn’t enjoy those smells and visuals so much. At Omonoia square we made a left down Konstantinou. In the future, I think it would be best to avoid this road. The streets were lined with people doing business in a field that does not interest me. We saw drugs being purchased. We saw a guy sitting against the building nonchalantly stick a needle into his arm and shoot up like it was as normal as eating an apple at a park. We just kept walking and tried appear as if we knew what we were doing. I really have no idea if it was dangerous, but I was certainly uncomfortable and glad when we finally made it safely to our hotel.

We turned in earlier than normal and spent some time on the roof admiring the view as the sun set. We chatted about what we had learned from the trip…about history, each other, and life. It was really nice. We found it hard to believe that our trip was almost over. One more day in Athens and it was time to head home.

Continue to Day 14…

We said goodbye to our cute little room in Nafplio and departed for Athens. It isn’t a long drive, only a couple of hours if you drive straight through. We, of course, did not drive straight through. When I first told Mikayla we were stopping at the ruins of another ancient city, Mycanae, she was far from enthralled.

“Haven’t we seen enough ruins?”

“But those were Byzantine, Venetian, and Ancient Athenian ruins. Today we get to see Mycenaean ruins!”

That didn’t seem to help.

“The castle we hiked up to yesterday? That was 300 years old. These ruins today are over 3,500 years old! These are the people ancient Athenians called giants because they figured humans could not build the massive structures found in their abandoned cities. These are the people that, according to legend, built the Trojan horse and defeated the city of Troy. A fierce warrior-like people that vanished without a trace over 3,000 years ago. These are the people that Homer tells about in the Iliad and Odyssey, where Greek Mythology comes from…”

“Okay dad! I get it!”

I don’t know whether my words or passion did the trick, but something sparked at least a mild interest and she found a way to enjoy yet another hilltop covered in rubble.

We walked through the remains of castle of this ancient powerful civilization. Like many of the other places, there isn’t a whole lot left and without the history most of it would be quite boring. But using Rick Steve’s Guidebook it came alive through fascinating facts and historical anecdotes:

• The massive rock across the Lion Gate (the lintel) weighs 18 tons (picture).
• The Grave circle was full of golden treasures (giving credibility to Homer’s tale of Mycenae being rich in gold).
• Up to 60,000 people lived in this city.
• Underground clay pipes carried water from the springs in the hills to the cistern in the fortress.
• Only a mere 10% of the site has been excavated.

Before we left on our trip, I had read that the cistern here is sometimes open and those up for an adventure can descend into the darkness if they have a flashlight. I packed a flashlight just for this purpose and halfway through our tour realized I had left it back in the car (D’oh! /forehead_slap). At the back of the fortress we found the little archway and stairs that vanished into darkness. It looked open to visitors and I decided to try using the LCD and focus assist light on our cameras for light before running all the way back to the car.

I use my cell phone as a flashlight all the time and figured a camera would also do the trick. We hit the first bend in the stairs and it got really dark; the cameras weren’t doing jack for us. We started taking pictures, using the flash to get a split second view of the stairs and then looking at the picture to see what was ahead. The walls were narrow; the rock steps small, steep, and slippery. It was pitch black and dead quiet and it seemed to twist and turn forever deeper into the ground. In other words, it was totally awesome.

It took us a while to get to the bottom because we moved really slow knowing a tumble into the darkness would have really sucked. As we neared the bottom I realized I could see the ground ahead of me now with just the camera menu. My eyes had adjusted from the bright sunshine and probably looked like huge black holes like a vampire or something.

We stayed for a while at the very bottom and turned off our cameras to enjoy the complete dark, quiet solitude. Our voices echo off briefly before being quickly sucked away by the earth. It seemed as if the stone walls around us snuffed out any form of light or noise. I’m not sure how long we stayed down there and we might have stayed even longer had we not heard a group working down the passageway. We climbed back out, moving at light speed compared to our earlier descent. The camera LCD now offered plenty of light.

We squeezed passed quite a number of people and different groups coming down and I felt quite lucky that we had enjoyed the place to ourselves for so long. As we neared the top, there was a couple stumbling forward in the dark, using their camera to take pictures just as we had. Faint daylight behind them made it easy for us to see them and I wasn’t really thinking about how they were totally blind to us. He held up his hand, took a picture, and they gasped. Afterwards it made me laugh to think about how startled I would have been on our descent, moving quietly, thinking we were alone, and suddenly somebody appeared in the flash of light directly ahead of us.

We hurried through the museum, the ancient BBQ was one of my favorite exhibits. It was filled with items excavated from the site and was interesting, but we were tired, short on time, and most of the golden treasures from the dig are located in the Athens Archaeological Museum. We stopped on the drive out to see the Tomb of Agamemnon (a quarter mile down the road).

The Tomb of Agamemnon (also known as the Treasury of Atreus) was the largest dome in the world for over a thousand years. The massive lintel weighs 120 tons! For comparison, the largest Stonehenge rocks are only 50 tons and the space shuttle weights 85 tons. Keep this in mind as you walk inside: that ancient giant rock 20 feet above your head has been sitting there over 3,000 years, has a visible crack, and could even turn Hercules into a pancake. No wonder the ancient Athenians figured the Mycenaean’s were giant Cyclops’s.

I was nervous to drive in Athens. Everything I read said it was a nightmare. I had even thought of taking the car to the airport to check it in early and then riding the metro back into Athens. I had a route planned directly to our Hotel and as we drove into the city, my apprehension mounted. It was a thrill to see the Acropolis in the distance as we approached but driving kept me from really basking in the moment. In the end, the drive to the hotel wasn’t a complete nightmare. I mean, yes, it was tight and parking impossible, but we made it. I dropped Mikayla off at the Hotel to ask where to park while I circled the block. They moved some planters and had us pull up next to the building and that is where our car sat for three days. We never planned on driving once we got there, it’s too easy to use the Metro instead.

We checked in and took the metro to the Acropolis stop. We spent the afternoon and evening walking for miles through the Athens tourist areas: the shops in the Plaka, the food in Monastiraki, the flea market, and Syntagma Square. We walked, shopped, walked, dined, walked, shopped, and walked some more. It was awesome, and in fact, Mikayla has said if she could pick one day to go back and do again, it would be this one (especially with her favorite Greek dish, a salad. That actually looks really good right now, I’m glad it’s on the menu for dinner tonight. We spent the final two days exploring these same areas and I will cover them in detail in the next two blogs.

From my Journal:

I’m sitting right now on the roof of our hotel in Athens. It’s dark, the moon is out, nearly full. About a kilometer away hovering above the city on the Acropolis on a throne of limestone is the Parthenon, the Temple of Athena. It’s all lit up, giant pillars standing tall as they have for over two thousand years. It’s temple that has been a shrine to honor the Greek god Athena, a Christian temple, a Muslim mosque, and now one of the world’s greatest monuments. Tomorrow we will visit it.

Continue to Day 13…

In the early 1800’s, the port town of Nafplio was chosen to be the first capital of modern Greece. A major reason was the Palamidi, a baroque fortress (said to be the most well preserved in all Europe) that sits 1,000 steps above town atop the cliffs. The first thing on our agenda today was to climb to the top of the castle before the afternoon sun arrived.

But as it turns out, the fortress ended up being the second item our our agenda after “letting Mikayla’s hair dry.” So instead of waiting on the deck with Mikayla for the sunshine to do its job, I took the opportunity to walk through the quiet streets of Nafplio. Several shopkeepers were just opening, most were still closed tight, and most of the traffic I ran into had four legs, a tail, and no more than 9 lives. A coordinated journey crisscrossing through the streets and alleys quickly shrunk the town down to a manageable size. Last night our aimless meandering was fun but had not let me build an internal map.

I found a bank and withdrew some cash, frustrating people behind me in the process as I tried to figure out what was an acceptable amount to request. Even several of the presented options generated an error telling me to select a different amount. One lady finally said, “Do you know how to use that?” I started to explain but then projected into the future and heard the words coming out of my mouth. They really didn’t accomplish anything so I stopped mid sentence and turned back to the machine. I did finally manage to pull out some Euros.

I tried to find Mikayla her favorite breakfast, a spinach pie, but it was too early. So with her now straightened and dry hair, we walked towards the base of the massive stairway and grabbed a couple of chocolate filled croissants on the way.

The stairs weren’t so brutal and it felt good to get some exercise. They zig zagged up the cliff, through a few archways, and finally leveled out way above town at the castle. The view was as breathtaking as the hike up. We looked down on the town, out to the ocean where a giant cruise ship was docked, and at the beach where swimmers floated like tiny buoys.

We spent a couple hours climbing the castle walls, admiring the scenery, and hiking around the plateau. We saw the dungeon where the famous Greek general Theodoros Kolokotronis was held. The sun was bright and the air hot enough to streak my face with sweat but not hot enough to keel me over. It felt really good. It is a sizable fortress with plenty of areas to explore. The battlements at the top of the stairway were fairly crowded, but once we followed the less worn trails to the north eastern part we found ourselves alone on the edge of the cliff. The ruins around the old cistern were ours alone to explore and photograph.

I hadn’t told Mikayla it was possible to drive up the back side and bypass the 1K stairway. I was worried she might not want to do the stairs if she knew. Even though Even though I figured she’d probably be on board with the climb, I didn’t take a chance. When she saw the parking lot and busses she didn’t say anything about having to climb the stairs. I think she enjoyed the climb as much as I did.

We went back to town and took a quick break before heading out for our afternoon adventures to the theatre of Epidaurus, a massive and the best preserved ancient theatre in Greece. During summer months they hold performances here. It was a quick drive out and we stopped at a grocery store on the way for some fruit and snacks.

I followed the signs and my GPS and we ended up in a dusty parking lot at a tiny little theatre. The sign had pointed us right to this spot but I looked at Mikayla confused and said, “This can’t be it, thousands of people come here.” There was one other car in the lot but we couldn’t see a single soul. We got out and walked around. The theater was fenced in, rather than open and seemed way smaller than the pictures. A couple walked down the dirt road, got in their car, and drove off. I got in the car and pulled out the Rick Steve’s book and read more about the theatre. I came across a passage that said if you drive all the way to the town of Epidaurus or you have gone too far. As luck would have it, they also have an ancient theatre and plenty of road signs pointing to it.

We backtracked about twenty minutes worth of road until a huge parking lot affirmed that we had found the right place. The theatre was built nearly 2500 years ago in a spiritual sanctuary for healing. People would come from all over the world to spend a night where the god Asclepius (Apollo’s son) would visit them in a dream with instructions for their healing.

Even today the theatre is world renowned for its incredible acoustics. It is said the limestone absorbs low frequency sounds and magnifies high ones. So crowd murmur is muted while song and voice are projected across as many as 15,000 spectators. Mikayla took off up the steps and I walked to center stage. I was amazed at how tiny the people sitting at the top appeared. The place was huge. I climbed up to the very back row and sat in the shade and let my imagination run thousands of years in reverse.

I watched the tiny little spot otherwise known as Mikayla move through the bleachers on the far left and then up to join me. Far below us, we watched a lady take center stage and proceed to do several readings and acoustical tests. We heard every word as she talked with her friends sitting in the first row. She took out a pin and told them to listen while she dropped it. The whole place became dead quiet as tourists, scattered throughout the bleachers, gave their attention to the lady. She raised her hand, and then…TING. Everyone applauded as if Pavarotti himself had just performed. I found myself a bit verklempt. Freaking amazing.

I went down and stood in the center so Mikayla could take a picture of me and was tempted to sing something. In the end though, I couldn’t think of anything worthy enough. I should have just done it. We toured the small museum and the nearby ruins where we followed a young family around for a bit because Mikayla enjoyed their “Jude Law” accent.

On our drive back to Nafplio, we stopped at a beach and relaxed for a couple hours. I listened to music and took a nap in the sun while she read her book. It was nice. It gave me time to think about my kids and the trips. Our final destination, Athens, was one day away. All the saving, planning, and anticipation over the years for these trips with the kids and the final one was almost over. This final trip coincided with Aubree going off to college and Curtis and Mikayla becoming fiercely independent. The end of this trip marks the end of an era for me. Life is very different now. I miss those little kids but at the same time, love these young adults that took their place. It blows my mind how different my life has become in just the past year.

We had a yummy dinner in the town square and watched people saunter. We then tried our own amateurish version of a saunter and took a stroll through the shops and I forced Mikayla to have some ice cream. I actually had to put my foot down and tell her she had no choice.

Continue to Day 12…

The story is fantasy, somewhat dark, and set in the original Diablo world (although knowledge of that game isn’t necessary). The blood, shadows, murder, and evil dripping from it’s pages make it a decent Halloween story. (The picture is stolen from the movie “Hostel,” which I haven’t seen and has no relation to the story other than the image kinda fits.)

Vengeance of the Tainted

The problem was the solution, or was it the other way around; Broan wasn’t sure. At least one filthy murdering bastard was waiting for Broan to show his face and therein was the problem. They knew him but he not them. And his only hope of getting justice was through this hazy, absurd connection. The innocent believed him dead and the guilty knew the truth. For a fortnight he’d stayed hidden trying to figure out how to solve this riddle but it had gotten him nowhere. It was a hopelessly impossible situation and he was tired of waiting.

From the hillside outside the sleeping town of Tristram, Broan sat huddled in a thick woolen blanket as the lanterns in the village succumbed to the late hour. The bright moon painted the valley a deep blue, making it easy to see but also, to be seen. He would wait until every household was dark and the only remaining flickering came from the watchman fires on the outskirts of town.

He opened his blanket enough to slip out an arm but not let the cool fall air steal his warmth. His blades glimmered in the moonlight. Long, shiny, and sharpened to perfection, they felt more like an extension of his arm than a tool. A generous gift from his father, they were a recognition of his unmatched skills and an investment in the family sheep farm. Witnesses described his shearing as a reckless fury but he’d never so much as even scratched one of his sheep. And any other man was lucky to shear one to his ten. People came from miles away just to watch. He was that good.

He laughed, quietly, because of both the irony and his fear of this night. He had no formal training for fighting. Knives, swords, or fists seemed like probable weapons, but he knew the shears. Someday a bard would sing a mocking tune about the foolish shepherd who perished on a pathetic path of vengeance armed only with a farmer’s tool, but so be it. These were his best chance. Or so he hoped.

No more lanterns. He stood and the blanket fell to the ground, the night chill would no longer be a problem. It had been years since he’d allowed his blood to run hot and let loose his temper, but now it was time. His rage served as a power that infused him with the strength of an ox but it also made him dangerous. After one of his first anger-laced tirades, Father had explained it like the fire in the stove. Controlled and in strict moderation, it warmed them and cooked their food. But if the fire was allowed to become fierce, it could destroy not only their house, but, ultimately, the entire town.

He obviously was not a full barbarian or managing it would have been impossible. But even a partial barbarian would have been run out of town if the villagers had known. Father had suspected it in his own lineage and with Broan, there was no question that the fire ran through his veins.

As a boy, Father helped him tame it. His young temper had destroyed countless sheep, farm tools, household items, and once, the entire barn. Had they lived closer to the village, the rage could never have been hidden. But in the solitude of the farm and under Father’s understanding, he survived the transformational years that destroy most young barbarians. But to actually tame it had taken much more than what Father could offer.

He turned and looked through the charred remains of the farmhouse, at the garden where she used to spend her afternoons. He could almost see her, waving and calling to him. Even her memory soothed the monster inside. He could almost feel her soft skin under his calloused hands, smell her lavender scented hair, and see the dark green eyes that so effortlessly calmed him.

Father said it was it her gypsy magic but Broan knew better. Rather than cower in fear at the monster inside him she had understood him, accepted him, and, somehow, loved him. How she saw past his evil and believed in a man tormented by chaos he would never understand. But her faith had put an end to his nightmare. She had turned him into a kind, loving husband and then, a father.

The impossible had occurred, a barbarian had transformed into an admired and reputable man. Of course, the town still didn’t know the truth. Even after knowing and trusting him they would never have risked one of his kind among them. A tear carved a path down his cheek and he closed his eyes. His life had been taken from him. First his mother, and now father, son…and her.

The memory of loss caused the heat inside to grow again, she wouldn’t want this. Perhaps as a spirit she would try and stop him from venturing into this night. He waited, giving her a chance, but felt nothing. She was truly gone. They all were. Tonight the beast inside would be set free to destroy a bigger monster. It was the right thing to do. He snapped the shears and the steel rang like music. Yes, it was time to act. He began a silent, hurried pace towards a large building in the middle of town.

Broan let enough heat surface to chase away the night chill, but stopped well short of rage. He needed to be able to think, reason, and plan…something a normal barbarian could not accomplish. He wouldn’t turn his anger loose because he knew didn’t want to punish the innocent. And just because a man was evil didn’t mean he was guilty. There were too many times in his youth he himself had been condemned for crimes of which he was innocent, yet he couldn’t blame the townsfolk for their accusations. As a somewhat troubled youth, he was often guilty, but not always.

But come morning if you find a hen mangled and eaten, you blame the wolf, right? Even though you didn’t see it happen, the nature of the wolf and the evidence are too overwhelming. He knew from personal experience, however, that it wasn’t always the wolf committing the crime. Sometimes there was a cunning fox that got the hen yet the wolf still paid for it. He knew the way of the wolf too well, and he also knew the odor of a fox. Hopefully tonight he would be able to tell the difference.

All logic pointed to a wolf: a large, ugly, brutal one known locally as the Butcher. And although his circumstantial evidence incriminated, it fell short of a death sentence. Broan wanted more proof before making the confrontation, but the nights were getting cold and he knew surviving his nomadic mountain life once snow began falling was impossible. He didn’t mind dying. In fact, he longed for death, but not until justice was served. Tonight it was all or nothing. If he was wrong about the Butcher, everything would be lost.

It was hard to imagine that the Butcher wasn’t involved. Ugly as an ogre and conniving as a troll, the Butcher had tormented his family from Broan’s earliest painful memories. It was no secret that both Father and the Butcher had courted Mother during their youth. Father said he was a mean son of a bitch even before Mother had made her choice, but then he became a living nightmare to the entire town. And after Mother had fallen ill and passed on, the Butcher became downright cruel. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was as good in his butchery as Broan was at shearing, the King certainly would have thrown him in the dungeons years ago. Everyone tolerated his arrogance and demeaning vulgarities because he could hack up a scavenger and make it taste like a prize winning steer.

If the Butcher was innocent of murder, he was guilty of enough other things that killing him would be a service to the entire kingdom. Although Father would never admit it and Broan was barely eight years old, Broan had always known why one night their wild boar hadn’t tasted quite right and why Deke, his pure bred Core Hound, didn’t return that night. Father never requested the services of the Butcher after that incident. Broan had wanted to go report it to King Leoric, a good fair man who was certain to punish the evil Butcher. But Father wouldn’t have it because the King has more pressing problems than petty disputes, he’d said.

But those early days were over shadowed by the past year. The Butcher had become furious that Father was trading with the gypsies. Most people didn’t like them, but the Butcher downright hated them. Had Father not stepped in to help last winter the whole lot of them probably would have starved and the Butcher knew it. It seemed to Broan that a man who would kill a boy’s dog and secretly sell it back to him as food for no better reason than just to be mean could likely kill an entire family for saving a group of gypsies.

It was enough to confront the Butcher but not yet enough to slaughter him. He would not kill an innocent man, even a cruel one. But setting the Butcher free, if innocent, meant the loss of his advantage in hunting the murderers. The Butcher would never keep his secret. Before sunrise, the whole town would know Broan lived. Everything hinged on how the Butcher received him; would he be shocked to see a dead man walking, or would he recognize a known vigilante? One way or another, tonight he would learn whether or not the Butcher was responsible.

*

Sticking to the shadows, he approached the dark butchery. The anger and confidence that had infused him on the hill wavered at the sight of the building that was the center of nearly every child’s nightmare. The massive structure loomed like a demon watching all who approached, ready to suck those venturing too close into a bloody room full of sharpened hooks, cleavers, and animal carnage.  Rumor had it that a man once journeyed past the blood stained counter into the forbidden area and was never seen again. And although it sounded like a story children would tell to scare one another, even the adults stayed away. If you had to deal with the Butcher you only walked in as far as absolutely required, and then you ran out without looking back.

Broan released a bit of rage, just enough to push him forward and creep to the front door. He pushed it open, not even locked. That’s how confident the Butcher was that nobody would dare bother him. The opening released a pungent smell of raw meat and his nostrils filled with stench. Although the dark part of him craved this smell, he was still human enough that he had to stop his stomach from convulsing what was left of dinner. Although it had been years since he’d been inside the butcher shop, before Deke vanished, he had never forgotten that smell of death and terror. It was almost enough to make him reconsider. After a slight hesitation, he slipped through the door.

Despite the cold night, the shop was warm and humid. Out of the bright moonlight, it took what seemed like an eternity for the counter to form from the shadows. As his eyes continued to adjust, the wide entrance into the forbidden area appeared on the other side. He climbed over the counter and quickly ducked behind it, as if the Butcher was right there waiting to split his skull with a cleaver. He waited through an extended dark silence. No Butcher, no cleaver.

Directly ahead was the open gateway to the forbidden area. The reality couldn’t be worse than the images of the Butcher that used to fill his nights: white smock streaked, spotted, and splashed crimson while the Butcher swung his cleaver and laughed hysterically. He had to remind himself those images were only his imagination. Staying low, he crept forward and crossed into the darkness.

The large room was windowless but a few cracks and holes let streaks of moonlight cut through the gloom, enough to silhouette several large hanging carcasses. Giant hooks and chains hung haphazardly at various heights and several large metal tables were unarranged throughout the room. A faint light in the back of the room seemed to beckon and he moved slow and cautious, shears in front.

The light came from a stairwell that dropped down to a door that was slightly ajar. Cool air from below touched his sweaty face and he gently began his decent, putting his weight slowly on each step. Halfway down, a muffled voice from beyond the door froze him, one leg caught midair. Moments later, a different voice responded. This voice sounded angry.

Two people? He should to go back up the stairs and walk away. His best chance would be to confront the Butcher, one-on-one. The Butcher alone was more than one man could handle; two would be a death sentence. Plus it complicated his analysis of the Butcher’s reaction to seeing him. He started to bring his foot back for a retreat when he wondered, who is the Butcher talking to? Nobody is allowed past the counter and no one he knew would even want to go past it. Kids didn’t even mock dare each other to try it. So who then was inside and what business did this person have with the Butcher?

The question had to be answered. He wouldn’t chance confronting two at once, but he would find out who was here. Just a few more steps and then he would slip away quietly to make a new plan based on solid information.

He waited to place each downward step amidst the mumbled chatter. He reached the door and carefully positioned his ear near the opening. A voice, not the Butchers but a strangely familiar one, spoke.

“You have no choice, understand? I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Until my son is found everything else waits.”

A loud crash made Broan jump and he brushed the door, it swung halfway open. Horrified, he jumped into what was left of the shadow as a solid stream of light shot up stairs. He readied his blades while his body pulsed with sharpened senses. If they rounded the corner, he would be ready for an attack. If they insisted on a fight, they would fight a barbarian.

“I don’t care who you are.” The throaty yell of the Butcher filled the stairwell as another crash sounded from inside the room. “Nobody tells me what to do!”

A faint green glow suddenly appeared and all fell silent. Broan breathed through his open mouth while his heart thumped almost loud enough to give him away. Then the mystery voice spoke again, calm and serene.

“Perhaps you have forgotten who you are dealing with? You will find the wayward shepherd after you find my son. And this time, I won’t tolerate failure.”

Broan’s mind flooded with thought, as energy pricked every hair on his body. There was no doubt now, these men knew. They were guilty and they would die. Not tonight, not against two of them, but soon, very soon. Only one question remained and he didn’t hesitate. He moved his head into the open doorway to identify the mystery voice.

His mind rejected the view in front of him. Impossible! King Leoric had his arms outstretched and green light danced from his fingertips surrounding the Butcher’s throat, apparently holding him in place. The fat man, so fearsome and brutal, looked helpless. His lips drooped on his face as he struggled for breath and tried to form words. Broan couldn’t move. He couldn’t process what he was seeing, what it meant, what was happening. He was completely dumbfounded and reacted without thought as fire ignited his soul.

He stood full height and shoved the door. It swung back on its hinge and shattered against the wall behind it. The King and the Butcher both turned and looked at him, the Butcher clutching madly at the green light surrounding his throat and the King looking calm and amused.

“A friend of yours?” the King asked the Butcher.

The Butchers face contorted into an angry bitter snarl, and the green light vanished.

The massive, towering man rose to his full height. He probably outweighed a horse with his rolls of fat drooping from his neck and arms. He turned and locked his beady red eyes with Broan’s.

“I’ve been looking for you, shepherd.”

The Butcher bent down and rose wielding a thick bloody cleaver so massive it nearly touched the ceiling. Three men, three large men, would be needed to hoist that much steel. Broan blinked, trying to comprehend. The Butcher laughed.

“This will be a lot more fun than fire,” the Butcher said, his purple lips curling upwards.

The Butcher swung his arm and the giant cleaver slashed down onto the large table between them, shattering it. Hundreds of wood shards showered around the room. No wonder he could cut up a full steer in just minutes, one chop with that cleaver could severe a horned demon in two.

“Stop!”

The King spoke an instant before Broan released his rage and both Broan and the Butcher stopped short of an attack, but neither backed away. Like battle hungry Hell Hounds, they stood ready to strike.

“Shepherd, where is my son?” The King sounded furious.

The question felt out of place, what was the King talking about? “Prince Albrecht?”

The King leaned closer, extending his fingers. “Tell me where he is and I promise you will die quickly. Otherwise, your death will be long and painful.”

“Your Majesty, I have no idea where your—”

The green light and pain were instant. Lights flashed and it felt as if the flames of hell surrounded him. It paralyzed him and hijacked his thoughts, sending the worst of memories through his mind like a parasite. Deke, the burning farmhouse, his crying son; his darkest moments twisted his soul like a tornado, churning his fury for vengeance. His body shook and blood boiled as the rage began exploding inside.

NO!

He tried to stop it but the assault on both mind and body were too much. His clothes ripped, his body contorted, and his fingernails expanded like hungry, living daggers. With a giant howl and an explosive crack, he became the Barbarian.

The green light vanished and the Butcher and King gaped in shock. Through the Barbarian’s rage-filled eyes, the world was red and ripe for the shredding. His eyes rested on the Butcher and an angry, low growl escaped his chest. He heard the Butchers heartbeat quicken and the smell of the thick blood it pushed made his mouth wet with hunger. His mind was filled with an image of his own razor-sharp teeth, the Butchers throat, and blood; lots of sweet smelling blood. The thought alone, rather than a conscious choice to attack, propelled the Barbarian forward in a blinding charge, launching him like an arrow across the room. The two massive bodies collided in a sickening crack and the surprised Butcher fell to the floor.

In a fluid motion, the Barbarian straddled the Butcher, grabbed his shoulder and squeezed until his fingers sank far beneath flesh and spilled crimson. Both the Butcher and Barbarian howled, one in delight, the other in anguish. The Butcher kicked and the Barbarian, falling backwards, swiped for the heart with the shears, an attack that should have been the final blow. But the shears merely scraped uncontrolled across the Butchers bulky chest. The Barbarian flew backwards across the room and smashed into the wall.

The Barbarian did not have the nimble dexterity of a shepherd and the shears were useless. He shook his hand vigorously until the straps broke free and the shears flew across the room and clanged against the wall. The King’s paralyzing green light appeared and the Barbarian felt pain, but it only fueled his rage. He pushed against the force and his body moved slightly. He pushed again, fighting the flashing lights and burning flesh and was able to step forward against the King’s magic.

The King was frantic and slowly moved towards the door. The Barbarian stepped forward again, pushing against the King, the pain, and the confusion. The one thing that now consumed him, violence, drove him forward. With all his strength, he forced his trembling body forward in another laborious step. His vision became hazy and the room began to spin, he pushed again but exhaustion prevented it. The blurred images of the King and Butcher vanished through the doorway and the green light vanished. The Barbarian fell to the floor.

*

He opened his eyes to darkness. The urge for destruction had vanished but the memory of his rampage filled his eyes with tears. What had he become? How could that have happened when he’d spent his life controlling himself so the monster would never surface? The beast would never relinquish its hold on his soul once it tasted blood. He touched his arms, fingers, and caressed his face. He was man again, apparently safe from the edge of destruction. This must never happen again, even if it meant abandoning his quest for revenge. The evil was too great. The Barbarian would destroy the entire town.

The regret and loss settled hard on his mind. In addition to the complete loss of his family, now there was a failed attempt at revenge. And his beloved shears, his last connection to his past life, now destroyed. It all weighed on his soul but none more than the recollection of the hatred and evil that had coursed through his veins.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled through the darkness for the stairway. No more of this. Revenge was too bitter. He would go far south and start a new life with the gypsies. Yes, she would want that.

He found the door and climbed the stairs into the room with the tables, chains, and hooks. At least he could see now and stumbled through the butchery. He had even climbed over the counter before he noticed the yelling. Lots of yelling.

He pulled open the door enough to peer out and his hope fizzled like a doused candle. Hundreds of men with torches surrounded the building, taunting and threatening. He pushed it shut. How long had he been down there in the dark? It had only seemed like moments—

“Barbarian!” It was the King. “Come out in man form and confess your crimes before the Archbishop of God! Free yourself of this evil or burn in hell.”

The King’s words stirred the crowd and they echoed the demand with a roar of jeering. Broan cracked the door again and scanned the mob. To the right of the King was the Butcher, with his giant cleaver and a shoulder wrapped in fresh red-stained bandages. To the left was the Archbishop Lazarus, a strange reclusive man that Broan had never quite figured out. The crowd appeared to extend all the way around the building.

He opened the door enough to yell out, “I don’t know anything about the Prince, and I have never harmed a single soul. The Butcher killed my family; I came for revenge, nothing more.”

“You are a barbarian, shepherd. You yourself don’t even know what evils you have committed. Will you spread your destruction further, beyond your family and my son? No! It ends tonight, no more will perish! Your life is over, that much is certain. But we can cleanse your evil and save you from Diablo’s eternal damnation.”

Broan slammed the door, walked back to the counter and rested against it, laying his head on his arms in fatigue and frustration. It wasn’t true, he had never transformed before tonight. Had he? No, the mere thought was foolish, he didn’t remember the fire because he had been out hunting. He’d come home to the destruction. Was it possible that he could have…no. It wasn’t. His curse was certainly damnation, but he had tamed it. Or rather, she had tamed it. But where was she now? Why had she forsaken him? Surely if she still loved him, believed in him, and wanted him she would touch him….direct him. Wouldn’t she?

He looked to the heavens, pleading.

“Barbarian!” The King sounded impatient.

What did it matter now? Life held nothing for him. Death was welcome. Maybe they could cleanse him and he would find her waiting.

He opened the door, the crowd fell silent and he stepped out into the night. The Butcher raised his cleaver and took several steps forward before the King’s green light froze the weapon in the air.

“He will be cleansed first,” said the King.

The Butcher relaxed and the light vanished. The weapon fell to his side and he eyed Broan as a wicked grin crept across his face. In a low voice as he backed away he said, “It’s too bad you are the last one, I’d love to do your mother again.”

The anger was instant, although the transformation wasn’t. Broan lunged for the throat of his enemy but the King had been ready with the magic. He struggled against the pain but did not let the Barbarian take him this time, what if he killed all the townsfolk too?  Besides, he just wanted death, to be free. The Butcher’s pathetic life was punishment enough for his evil.

The King released the hold and Broan dropped to his knees. “Finish me,” he said.

“Archbishop Lazarus will now cleanse the monster,” yelled the King to the cheering crowd.

The Archbishop stepped forward and knelt beside him. “Barbarian,” he whispered. “Don’t give up so easily.”

Broan looked up into the thin, war-scarred face of the Archbishop. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

The Archbishop’s eyes furrowed. “Such a strange request for a Barbarian. I’ve known Barbarians and you are unlike any I have ever encountered. How is it you have learned to control your passion?”

Broan didn’t answer, but turned instead to the angry men demanding his execution. He filled his lungs and exhaled slowly while his eyes focused in the distance, beyond the torches and shouting.

“I know your desires, I know of the burning, the thirst that drives you.” Broan didn’t respond. The robe clad vicar leaned in closer, and in an even softer voice said, “I know how your soul burns for revenge against the Butcher for his sins against your wife.”

Broan’s eyes shot a quick glance at the Archbishop, and then back to a faraway land.

“Oh, yes Barbarian, he bragged about the horrible things he’d done to her before he slit her throat. How he made your son watch.”

Broan’s breathing intensified and the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly, but his eyes remained focused.

“Just like he did your mother so many years ago.”

A faint glow ignited deep in Broans eyes and he spun his head to face the Archbishop. “Why are you doing this. Aren’t you supposed to cleanse me so I can face God?”

“God?” The Archbishop laughed and shook his head. “Even if it was possible, God has abandoned you,” he paused and looked back at the villagers, “he abandoned all of us long ago. Look around, what do you see? An entire town that conspired to have a good family tortured and murdered for helping the gypsies.” He shook his head in shame and disappointment. “Now you tell me Barbarian, what kind of God would allow that happen to good people? And what kind of God would allow such evil to go unpunished?”

“It wasn’t them, it was the Butcher,” Broan said. “I already know that.”

“But who do you think ordered the Butcher to do it? Who do you think helped hide the evil deed? And who do you think pleaded with the King to rid Tristram of the rogue family living in the farmlands supplying the gypsies with food?” The Archbishop pointed around to the angry mob, “And who now stands ready to execute a man they know is innocent of any crime?”

Broan scanned the glowing eyes that surrounding him. It appeared every man in Tristram was present and armed with torches, axes, and daggers. And not a single understanding or half-sympathetic eye. Their solemn faces were bitter and ready for blood. Although none were close enough to have ever called him a friend, he’d always felt that a mutual respect and kindness existed. An appreciation for his services, often given freely for those in need. But now he could see it. The anger and hatred that burned in them was evil. Truly, God had forsaken Tristram.

Sweat began to form on his forehead, and suddenly he felt the energy to stand, but he stayed on the ground with the Archbishop.

“To hell with them all. Cleanse me, I want to face God and see my wife.”

“Do you feel your wife? You tell me Barbarian, does she abide in your heart? And what of this God you speak of? Does he protect you? Did he protect your family? What God has rewarded you for your sacrifice and kindness and punished the evil around you? This God you speak of that doesn’t seem to care, why do you think he will now receive you?”

Broan locked his fiery red eyes on the Bishop. “If what you say is true, why shouldn’t I just start my massacre with you, right now.”

The man smiled back at him. “Because I am the only one here able and willing to help you get your revenge. If by chance this God of yours exists, did you ever consider the fact that maybe you, yourself are God’s avenging angel? Sent here to make them pay for their sins? But if no God is watching, well, who then will punish the wicked? Either way, Barbarian, I am the one who can help.”

Broan scanned the crowd: men he once trusted, a King he once cherished, and the Butcher whom he always hated. All had betrayed him. And who is to say that she wouldn’t want this? Maybe God would even reward him for punishing them, after all, doesn’t God want evil destroyed? They had taken her life, a truly good woman, and yes, they must be punished. Any God that would let them go unpunished was not worthy of his service. Maybe the Bishop was right, maybe he was God’s angel of vengeance. But like the Bishop had said, even if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Somebody had to make things right.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Butcher raise his cleaver in arrogance and mocking degradation. Comfort seethed through Broan’s chest; tonight the Butcher would die. The thought churned the brewing hunger for carnage deep inside. It was time to free the Barbarian.

“How do I get past the Kings magic?” Broan said.

The priest smiled and carefully removed a small charm from inside his coat. “This can protect you for a moment, not long, but long enough. Run to the Cathedral, you won’t have a problem getting inside. The lower levels are an abandoned labyrinth that only I have explored, you’ll be safe there. What better place to take refuge than the King’s own quarters? When they search for you, you’ll fight them in smaller numbers instead of all at once.”

Broan took the small charm and the Archbishop continued.

“I’ll tell them the cleansing will begin and then stun them to buy you more time; just keep your eyes closed. Then you can run right through them, but don’t stop until you are deep inside in the Monastery. There is enough food and weapons to survive for years. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Broan nodded, and let his anger surge. Not a full transformation, but enough to give him the power and speed needed. The Bishop stood and helped Broan to his feet.

“Remember, eyes down and closed,” he whispered to Broan, who obliged.

“The Barbarian has confessed and wishes to be cleansed of evil before his execution,” yelled the Archbishop. “All kneel!”

Everyone dropped to one knee, including Broan. Although he maintained an image of exhaustion and submission, he not only felt alive and ready for battle, he was excited for it. It was all he could do to keep a smug grin from creeping across his face.

The Archbishop began chanting loud, strange words and Broan closed his eyes and bowed his head. Through his closed eyelids he saw the bright flash of light. In the same instant a loud bang filled the sky. He opened his now glowing eyes and jumped to his feet. In two large leaps he reached the wall of kneeling men and cleared them in a single bound. Two more steps and a man behind him yelled. On the third step, a green light surrounded him and the charm in his hand burned hot. On the fourth step, he heard the frantic, fading voice of the Archbishop ordering everyone to pursue the escaped criminal. But it was too late. He would easily reach the monastery before they could stop him.

*

The once derelict monastery – the building King Leoric had commandeered for his own royal cathedral – was starting to come to life with the early morning hour. Broan passed through the tall spired corridors as if he himself wore the crown. Tristram’s unchallenged peace and prosperity had fostered a trusting staff. Guards, cooks, butlers; none took a second glance as Broan raced to the less traveled stairway into the dark lower levels.

He grabbed a burning torch from a wall mount and descended. The fire burned thick cobwebs that shrouded the lower labyrinth with an eerie warning to all explorers. But he pushed through, deeper into the blackness. He passed an archway into a large opening. Rats and other small beasts scuttled into shadows to escape the flickering light.

Broken tables and chairs littered the room and ornate half-decayed curtains draped the walls. It offered enough space to fight, yet not so much than an entire mob could attack at once. It was perfect. Small corridors fed the room from various directions offering an escape if needed and he quickly scouted them for the advantage.

Scarcely had he finished his complete scan of the room when the sound of footsteps and hushed voices began to echo off the stone walls. He doused his torch and found, surprisingly, that instead of blackness he saw the world in a faint red hue. Mice, previously unseen in the darkened cracks, pulsed like fireflys from within their hiding places. Perhaps a full transformation would not be required. In this heightened state he certainly felt stronger, had new abilities, and yet retained his mind. The cravings were present, of course, yet not overwhelming.

He positioned himself in the shadows, or what would soon be shadow once the torches dancing in the distance arrived. The hallway feeding the room was narrow. At most, three maybe four could reach him. He massaged his knuckles in anxious anticipation, smiling like a fiendish demon.

The Butcher led the posse, a torch in one hand and giant cleaver in the other. The sight of the somber somewhat fearful townsfolk behind the giant made him laugh. His inhumane voice, low and deep, echoed off the walls and filled the catacombs with a warning to the mob. And when all but the Butcher stopped, looking anxiously at one another for support and reassurance, he laughed even harder. Several of them left.

“Coward!” Yelled the Butcher. “Come out and fight like a man.”

This both disgusted and infuriated Broan. Not the coward part but the irony that the Butcher, of all people, accused him of lacking humanity.

“If we are agreed I am a man, why do you hunt me like a monster?”

The Butcher bellowed and destroyed an old chair with his oversized blade. “You and me, Barbarian, right now. Let’s end this once and for all.”

The townspeople apparently liked the idea, as they quickly shuffled backwards in support of a Butcher Barbarian brawl. Broan stepped forward and into the glow of their torches but it didn’t have the reaction he expected. They straightened and fear seemingly drained from their faces.  It gave him pause.

He looked at his hands and saw the nimble fingers of a shepherd and a sudden chill shot through his body. Anger! Barbarian! Get mad…kill the Butcher. His mind raced in a sudden rush of fear trying to invoke his rage as the Butcher advanced. He killed your wife, your family! But the confidence was gone, panic and mounting fear were his new battle companions.

Now it was the Butcher who laughed. “You are nothing but a coward!”

Broan stepped backwards, the cleaver rose into the air, and Broan dove. A shattering crash shook the ground under the weight of the mighty cleaver as Broan rolled over the dusty floor. He scampered back to his feet. The Butcher wasted no time and was immediately upon him again, this time the cleaver came from the side and Broan dropped to the floor while a rush of air sounded above him. The effort caused the Butcher to stumble forward, slightly off balance from the heavy attack into nothing.

Broan saw his chance and rushed the back of the Butcher to knock him to the ground. He may as well have run head-on into a stone column. The failed charge instantly sent a wave of pain through his shoulder and neck and didn’t even budge his target. The Butcher spun and caught Broan with the backside of his arm, throwing him against the wall. Pain attacked his back and head.

He watched a blurry Butcher advance.

“Such a disappointment, young Shepherd. Your wife even put up more of a fight—“ he picked up Broan by the neck and hoisted him into the air. “—even after I had ripped off her right arm.”

Broan kicked and grabbed the meaty hand choking him. A loud clang, the Butcher dropped his cleaver and wrapped his other hand around Broan’s throat.

“Not a bad idea. I think I’ll just squeeze the life out of you.”

Still swinging his feet, Broan twisted, bit, and punched. His chest screamed for air, desperate for breath. His childhood flashed before him; working with his father and hearing his mother’s singing while she prepared a stew. He heard his son’s  first laugh. Then she appeared, smiling. She opened her mouth to call him or perhaps to beckon him? But something was wrong, her eyes opened wide, her mouth drew back in terror, and she ran awkwardly from him, falling to her side. He saw her stained dress and to his horror, the meaty bloodstained stump where her right arm had been. She grabbed a goblet from the table and threw it at him, and she screamed. He screamed. He shook. And the Barbarian exploded into the world.

The power of the transformation threw the Butcher to the ground. The Barbarian stood to full height and roared with such intensity that cutlery rattled in the upstairs chambers.  The Butcher’s face contorted into an expression of terror and he kicked his feet and flailed his arms in an attempt to escape.

The Barbarian picked up the giant cleaver. His hand surged with heat upon contact with the hilt, a heat that climbed his arms and filled his body with crazed passion. He opened his mouth and the sound of hell rattled up out of the cathedral and every woman and child still sleeping in the town of Tristram awoke to the terror.

The cleaver sliced effortlessly through the air and fell onto shoulder of the Butcher and amid a burst of flesh and crimson, his right arm fell lifeless.

For a moment, the Barbarian stood watching his quivering mortal enemy, lying in a growing pool while a dying pulse pumped a weakening stream of dark liquid from his bare shoulder. The Barbarian’s eyes burned red, his mouth frowned, and he swung the cleaver again.

The Barbarian, covered in gore, turned to face the mob but the chamber was empty. Torches, farm tools, and swords littered the floor behind them. It would be the last time any man ever walked away free from the holy cathedral. He knew they would return. It was their nature. And when they did, he would be there, waiting with his giant cleaver.

I didn’t expect we would spend so much time driving in a country smaller than the state of Utah. Today we drove from Kardamyli, to Monemvassia, to Nafplio. I tried to remember our route and plug it in to Google which claimed it takes roughly six hours. I think we were slightly over that and I’m guessing my GPS had something to do with that.

If you zoom in on Google maps you can see how many of the roads that look straight are actually quite hairy (like this one). The formula from point A to point B must be multiplied by π (yes, that is the Greek symbol for pie) to account for all the switchbacks (and the funky TOMTOM GPS routing).

It may sound like I’m complaining, but I’m not. Most of our journey was through the mountains with gorgeous views where towns, people, and other motorists were few and far between. We saw a lot of beautiful country, stopped at little stores to grab snacks (like a yummy spinach pie), and were slowed by multiple encounters with sheep, goats, and cows. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Monemvassia is a small village on the back side of a giant rock of a peninsula that is linked to the mainland by a narrow causeway. The mountain sits close enough to the mainland an Olympian could peg it with a javelin. For the defenders on the 100 meter high plateau of Monemvassia, an Olympian hucking javelins would be of little threat and an easy target. The safety of the medieval fortress high above made Monemvassia an excellent refuge from attackers.

1500 years ago Monemvassia was established by people wanting to escape their invaders. As an ideal location for a fortified fortress, it passed through several different ruling powers over the past thousand years. On the far end is a tiny hillside town set at the base of a stairway that climbs up the cliff to the ancient ruins on the top. The town and ruins are well worth the extra out-of-the-way driving required for a visit.

We drove across the causeway, wound around the giant rock, and parked outside of town. The Greek words Mone (single) and emvasio (entrance) help explain the single castle-like door that blocked the entrance to town. Even if your car could make it through the front door, it never would fit on the path that climbs and weaves through the little shops, taverns, and restaurants. Narrow, steep stairs shoot up to the left and drop down to the right on the the alleys that veer from the main path. It felt like I had jumped back in time and was walking through an old medieval village where at any moment a wizard might appear in a flash and puff of smoke.

We perused through a few shops, walked to the edge of the baluster to look out into the ocean, and then climbed the steps up to the ruins. We curled up the mountain, passed through several tunnels, and then found ourselves on top of the plateau. The remains of a powerful medieval city covered the top of the mountain. We walked along the stone paths, through various stone arches, up and down the stone stairs, and poked our head in the stone houses. Yes, everything was made of stone. The only intact building was the church but I don’t know if it was rebuilt or restored. We enjoyed the view of ocean from multiple angles and then descended back down into town.

On our way out of town we stopped at a cozy looking tavern so Mikayla could get a coffee. I convinced her to try some Greek coffee (I won’t touch anything that has the word coffee in it, bleauch!). Coffee powder is boiled in water and the beverage is served with the grounds that settle in the bottom of the cup as a brownish mud. Not knowing any better, Mikayla tried some of the mud. Suffice it to say that she is not a fan and didn’t even finish her $4 drink!

We stopped on the causeway and I walked out on the Pier to get a close up of the waves crashing in. It was a little scary, some of the waves crashed up and over the barrier which, at the very least, would have soaked me. There was also the potential of being swept off into the water (although I believed the chances of that to be slim). I walked out nervously to the very end with my camera and camcorder. When nothing happened my arrogance took hold and I yelled out to Poseidon, daring him to give me his best. He didn’t and I called him a wimp, a has been, a washed up God. Finally, disgusted I walked back to the car. He did, however, get his revenge in Athens. But that is still a few days away.

On the drive to Nafplio Tom Tom took us up over a mountain on a road that slowly  deteriorated. Once the tar vanished and we hit dirt, I got nervous. My logic is that a road that is slowly getting worse will eventually die out completely at an old barn or something. At least, that’s how it seems to work in Utah. But if I turned around it was a loooong way around…so we kept going. We hit a point where the road was covered, literally 100% covered, in sheep droppings. Moments later we encountered thousands of sheep coming the other direction (not the picture). It took about 20 minutes to get through them and when the last lone sheep ran past us I rolled down the window and said “Do you know you are last, very very last out of thousands? You better pick it up buddy.” I think he flipped me off (as best a sheep can) as he went past.

The road panned out, more beautiful scenery, and eventually we arrived in Nafplio. Up until now I have mentioned a few of TOMTOM’s shortcomings. In Nafplio, old Tom totally blew it. One simple tip would have really helped…I give it to you now free of charge. “Nafplio is a pedestrian town.” I tried to drive to our hotel, which turned into a frustrating nightmare. The streets are not made for cars. We circled, I tried to squeeze down narrow roads where people sat at tables dining, I backed up, and performed a 20 point U turn. Once TOM TOM even tried to get me to drive up some stairs.

We finally parked and walked through town with our luggage clicketyclacking along the cobblestone. The sound totally reminded me of my trip with Aubree last year as we dragged our luggage around Italy, France, and Spain. We were looking for a certain listing that Rick Steve’s suggested and inquired at different place while we hunted for it. It was a dungy looking place with no internet and we decided to keep looking. It looked old, and not in the rustic, cool old-looking way.

We found the place we were looking for, the Pension Rigas, which was the same price as the dungy place…but that is all they had in common. We had internet and the new place was so charming I wanted to spend three nights instead of just two. It was clean, spacious, and had a really good feeling about it. Nicholas, the owner, was incredibly helpful and friendly. He told us about the town, suggested places to visit, and gave us a map.

We enjoyed a traditional Greek dinner and spent the evening exploring the crowded pedestrian streets, rummaging through little shops, and avoiding one particular restaurant on the waterfront because the owner called me a liar the second time we walked past. His argument was that I did not return for dinner as promised. In my defense, I said I’d think about it rather than I’ll be back later. I think he was just mad because, based on his prices, he could have retired after I had purchased our meals. Can you spot what caught my attention as I walked past this shop (click the picture for a larger view)?

Continue to day 11…