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A certain almost nonagenarian sent me an email message today, with this subject: Cyprus Reflections. The message read as follows:

Lynne, you are falling behind. Try to catch up.

He sent his email at 5:43, but I didn’t check my email until almost four hours later. Here is my response:

Dafnis—You are very right. I AM falling behind. I blame my sister! 

Rachel and Austin have been here since Sunday, and we have been on the go every day: Monday (Hilarion’s Castle, Kyrenia, Belapais Abbey, Famagusta), Tuesday (Aphrodite’s Rock, Paphos area archaeological sites, and lunch by the sea), Wednesday (mountain villages and monasteries, as well as Kelefos Bridge), Thursday (a lovely luncheon with family and friends in the village of Kalo Chorio), Friday (ancient Kurion and Kolossi Castle). Tomorrow we plan to descend on (or I should say ascend to) one of my favorite villages (Lefkara) before joining more family and more friends for the birthday celebration of the aforementioned octogenarian’s brother—now an octogenarian himself! Then it’s off to the Larnaka airport to say goodbye to this sister and nephew who have kept me away from my computer, put thousands of extra steps on my exercise watch each day, made us laugh, and given us rich memories of this week together in Cyprus.

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Hints of what used to be.

Our little party of six headed off in two cars from our hotel in Drousia in search of Agios Katerina in Kritou Terra. This lovely multi-domed church has three vaults running the length of the nave, representing the trinity. Built in the 15^th century, it fell into disrepair at some point. It has recently been restored, although the frescoes were damaged beyond restoration.

Then we were off over the hills and farmland for a brief visit to the village of Steni and its very fine Museum of Village Life. We were there just long enough to stretch our legs and then away we went again. The farmland was striking in its beauty, as well as its isolation; we saw very few houses. I had to wonder how far the tenders of this land must travel to do the labor required for such productive fields.

Click the image to see the goats better.

I somehow missed or forgot that a Venetian bridge was in our itinerary, so I received a pleasant surprise when our two cars stopped and I realized I was staring across a dry meadow at the Skarfos bridge. Built in 1618 over the Stavros tis Psokas River—which is bone dry this time of year—the bridge made a lovely foreground subject with the hills and pasture land in the background. A big plus was the herd of 50–75 goats in the fields across from the bridge, their bells tinkling as they stretched as high up into the trees as they could for some lunch.

Our lunch had to wait until we reached a certain picnic area deep in the Paphos Forest. It really was a lovely spot for lunch—even though it didn’t happen until 3 p.m. I looked in vain for a sighting of the mouflon sheep that live in the area. Apparently, they were having their lunch elsewhere.

After stopping in the forlorn location of the abandoned village of Agios Merkuris, we made our way out of Paphos Forest toward the sea. The dirt road led us past mile after mile of forest that had been destroyed recently by fire. I hate to see one tree dead or cut down. But I found it ominous to see hundreds upon hundreds of acres blackened and bare.

Finally, and abruptly, the land turned green again and we were soon in the port villate of Latchi, where we stopped to sip coffee or milkshakes by the port. After our drinks we hit the road one last time, heading back to Drousia Heights hotel for rest and supper at 8pm up in the village of Drousia.

Michael and I had walked through the village the day before and had seen several tavernas. So as our group made our way up the narrow windy road into the village, he and I walked ahead to find out which taverna looked best. We certainly didn’t want to go to the one that had no customers. And we did not want to go to the one that had only foreigners for customers. Then we saw the one that was just right: locals eating in a setting that was comfortable and unassuming. Our hosts were a Greek Cypriot man and his Bulgarian wife. They did not give us menus, but rather talked with us about what they were serving and how they prepared it and waited patiently as we decided what we would like to have. We ended up sharing several dishes, and everything was delicious, particularly the lamb kleftiko and a beef dish that had been cooked for hours in a sealed oven along with caramelized onions. After a day exploring this area of the island, we were all very happy to have a relaxing dinner together in a cozy and friendly spot.

The day was long and extremely interesting. As I think back on it, I remember all those goats across from the Skarfos bridge. I can’t explain it, but I had a strong urge to march through the weeds and join those goats in their field. Would they have let me join them? Think of all the close-up photos I might have gotten. The next time we encounter another herd of goats, I think the urge to join them might be irresistible.

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Today was a day of stones in the Akamas Peninsula of Cyprus. We will be spending several days in this area, and I will tell you more about what we discover. But for today, I hope these stones will speak to you.

Sister Time!

My sister Rachel is coming! Can you guess from the photo whether or not I am happy about her visit? If you have trouble deciding, click on the photo for a better look!

 

As far as I’m concerned, any time is the best time for Sister Time! I’m counting down the four days until my sister Rachel arrives from Kentucky for a week of sightseeing, sipping frappé, soaking up some Cypriot hospitality, and doing absolutely nothing besides being together. I can’t wait!

Rachel has been here before. In 2011, the women of my family came for a visit: Rachel, my sister Patience, and my mother (also named Patience). That was a precious time for us.

I had tried very, very hard to create a reasonable itinerary for us. Even so, we were busy from morning until night, traveling all around the island to see the sights.

 

Some of my favorite memories are from visits to villages and ancient ruins. At Kurion, my mother and some other tourists talked us sisters into singing in the amphitheater. Convincing us to sing together has never been difficult! We have sung on demand from China to Boiling Springs—as well as Kurion.

This time, Rachel is bringing my nephew (and her oldest son) Austin to show him the marvels of Cyprus. I have given Austin fair warning. Since sister Patience won’t be with us when we get to Kurion, he may just have to sing the second harmony part!

 

—ooooo—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Amathus was an ancient city-kingdom that dates as far back as 1100 B.C. During the first century A.D., the Roman temples of Amathus were so important that the entire island of Cyprus was often referred to as Amathusia.

The other day, we visited the ancient city of Amathus, right at the edge of the sea and not far from Limassol. I should qualify by saying that we visited the remains of that have been uncovered by countless archaeologists and their lowly assistants, working since the 1980s to unearth ruins that prove people have lived in this spot for at least 3,000 years.

Michael is standing high on a cliff, surveying the ruins of the port city far below. The city was destroyed and all but abandoned after the Arab invasions of the 7th century A.D. Over time, its importance faded away; and, in the 12th century, many building stones were taken from Amathus to be used for new construction in Limassol. In 1869, many blocks of stone were repurposed for use in the construction of the Suez Canal.

We have been to the sites of many ancient cities in the eastern Mediterranean. I find each one has its own mystery and attraction. Sometimes we know quite a bit about the archaeological site before we arrive; sometimes we know absolutely nothing about it. Either way, when we leave, we always want to find out more about what the place was like when it was bustling with people.

For though these stones have a beauty of their own, and though we respect the immense patience of the archaeologists who have reconstructed the structures, what we really want to know about are the people. Men and women conducting commerce in the Agora marketplace, children playing in the streets, and travelers arriving to tell unimaginable stories from faraway lands.

The reconstructed ancient sites are breathtaking, but they are even more spectacular when I am able to picture the stones as part of a dynamic, living culture, teaming with people—young and old, good and bad, poor (mostly) and rich. Because it is the people living there who gave a city or village life in the first place; and it is in imagining those people that an ancient city comes alive again for me.

 

 

 

 

 

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We needed a day off today, so we decided to head for the hills in search of another Venetian Bridge. Before we left, we looked at an online map and found it was just barely outside a small village in the mountainous Pitsilia region. We spotted the bridge on the satellite image on my laptop—just down a short dirt road from the village. Easy-peasy—and off we went.

When we got close to the village, we began looking for signs of the riverbed. We knew it wouldn’t have any water this time of year, but vegetation is always a lot greener along those dry banks. Just before the modern bridge to the village, sure enough, there was the dirt road. It did not go gently down toward the river, though. We drove steeply up, up, up, until we were perched atop a narrow vantage point and could look down at the lovely bridge. The sun wasn’t terribly high in the sky, since it was just mid-morning, so the light was really nice for photos. I love stone structures, particularly if they are old, and especially if they are hundreds of years old.

In 1489, Venetians took control of Cyprus and held it until the Ottomans seized the island in 1570. The Venetians built stone bridges in order to make it a little easier to haul natural resources out of the deep mountains. Looking at the surrounding terrain today, I concluded that the bridge may have been a welcome sight to those doing the hauling, but the road leading to it and away from it would have made for really, really—I mean really—difficult hauling. Poor donkeys and oxen!

As Michael and I climbed up, down, under, and across the area around the bridge, we noticed that the two arches were not identical. One is a round arch and the other is a slightly pointed arch. The round one has smooth, square stones outlining the arch and the highest curve underneath the arch, but the rest of the stones have a more natural shape. The slightly pointy arch is outlined with darker, more rectangular stones. We were pretty sure one of them was a reconstruction, possibly because the original had not stood the tests of time. When Dafnis found that we had visited this bridge, he answered some of the questions we had been asking ourselves. One explanation for the differences in the two arches is that because of erosion of the east bank of the river, a second arch was added during the Ottoman years—which explains the slightly pointed arch.

I appreciate these ancient bridges and wish I knew more about the Venetian bridge and road system during the 15th and 16th centuries. How many bridges have crumbled into oblivion? I’m really glad that these few remain.

— ooooo —

When we looked more closely, we realized there were more frogs than we first thought. How many frogs do you see? [click on the picture to enlarge it]

One final note: we actually did see water under the bridge—under the Ottoman side. Amidst the thick vegetation under that arch, we found a small, crystal clear pool with lovely green grasses forming a network under the water. On top of that safety-net of grasses, we saw a couple of frogs, basking in the sun. When Michael walked to the water’s edge to take their portrait, they did not even blink. And they certainly didn’t jump into the safety of the deeper water. They didn’t seem to be afraid of us at all. Could it be because they see so few people that they didn’t know to be afraid? We decided this bridge really is a little too isolated and difficult for some people to get to—and apparently that suits these froggies just fine.

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For Cypriot Orthodox people, a godfather is not a gangster in a movie. He has a key role in the christening of a baby—and  an ongoing positive influence over that child throughout his or her life. Dafnis will be 90 years young in a few months. He doesn’t remember how many godchildren he has—maybe as many as thirty. Many of them were given his name, since it’s not uncommon for parents to name a child after his or her godfather.

Last night, we joined Dafnis and his family to honor some of his godchildren. His daughters Lydia and Louisa worked very hard at preparing the house and the food necessary to entertain seven of Dafnis’s godsons and goddaughters, one goddaughter of his late wife, Maroula, and some of the spouses as well. They represented a wide age range, although these particular godchildren had not been children for a long time. They all treated Dafnis with great affection, hanging on his words—which are usually pretty captivating.

Dafnis made a not-too-long speech that all the Cypriots appreciated. Michael and I attempted to decipher the gist of the speech based on the few Cypriot words we understood. People chuckled throughout his short talk and clapped in a few places. At one point we could tell he was introducing us—it’s hard not to understand the Cypriot words American, Michael, Lynne, and Cosby. Then more clapping and cheers. Louisa leaned over to me and explained that her father had just told the group, “The Cosbys are in Cyprus to write a book, and the hero is. . . me.” He’s usually pretty shy about divulging that information, but these people were obviously special to him.

Dafnis’s friend and advisor, Father Genadios offered a prayer, and we all observed a brief moment of silence for godchildren who are no longer living. Then the godchildren took turns around the room introducing themselves. I kept hearing Dafnis and Dafne. Later, I talked with one of the goddaughters. Her name was Dafne, and she told me that, whenever she meets someone in Cyprus named Dafni or Dafne, she asks, “Is Dafnis P— your godfather?” Inevitably, the answer is a surprised, “Yes!”

We all ate too much delicious food as the veranda and the house buzzed with conversation. After a while, some of the immediate family needed to say their goodbyes, and, pretty soon, so did we. When Michael and I left, Dafnis was seated at the dining room table surrounded by the godchildren he wanted to honor—younger Dafnises, and Dafnes, and those with other names, intent on what their Godfather had to share with them. And I’m pretty sure they ended up honoring him.

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I have friends who occasionally are stricken with laryngitis. I have a really hard time imagining myself physically not having the option of talking. I’ve never had laryngitis. I have had times when I chose not to speak—although I know several people who will doubt me on this. I’ve also had times when I had nothing to say—rare though they may be. Over the past several days, my poor blog has had laryngitis—or some sort of malady. I think it’s getting its voice back slowly-slowly (as they say here).

View of the sidewalk on our corner. Parked four deep. Well, yes—two deep on the sidewalk and two deep on the street. [Click on any photo to enlarge it]

Down here in the noise of the city, I have been hankering for the hills and the little villages that cling to them. Today I decided to take a walk and remind myself of the charm that’s here, if I only look.

Walking through the turnstile at the Limassol Municipal Gardens is like stepping back to the mid 1900s. Immediately the city seems to be held at bay.

 

I watched the old man. He watched the young mother and her baby stroll past. Do you think the baby made him think about how quickly he himself went from baby in a stroller to old man sitting on a bench?

 

I was just getting ready to take a photo of the old men visiting over coffee, with the push-go-round in the foreground. Then shouts and laughter erupted from a school bus, and the scene suddenly changed. Isn’t that the way it goes round?

 

The trunks of these trees remind me of human fingers or arms hugging. A little creepy. But I can’t take my eyes off of them.

Yes. The sky was this blue.

 

The paths are perfect for strolling. Nobody seems to be in a hurry here at the Gardens.

 

In the morning sunshine, the canopies of the mimosa relatives seemed to have an inner light.

 

 

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I’ve been thinking about seeds. Recently, as I sat and talked with someone, we nibbled on grapes, abundant this time of year. “These grapes are so good,” the woman said. “If it weren’t for all the seeds.” She daintily plucked two or three from her mouth and deposited them on her small plate. “My grapes don’t have any seeds,” I said, and then popped one in my mouth, chewed on it, and swallowed. “Really?!?!” she replied, not at all sure what had just happened. Then I fessed up.

When I was a little girl, grown-ups were fond of cautioning us children, “Now don’t you go swallowin’ the seeds,” —as we ate, for instance, an apple—“Or else you’ll soon have an apple tree growing out your ear!” They always laughed. And I always ate the seeds. Yup. Apple, grape, orange, watermelon. Pretty much any fruit with seeds. Although I admit that I drew the line with peach pits—after I got up the nerve and swallowed the first one. I never did have any fruit trees or vines grow out my ear, but I did win a hotly contested watermelon-eating contest, mostly because those seeds didn’t slow me down one bit.

In Cyprus, seeds are abundant, and I’ve eaten more than my share. My favorites, of course, are the pomegranate seeds—along with the actual fruit surrounding each one. The prickly pear fruit is refreshing with its hint of sweetness. I feel right at home eating them, because you pretty much have to swallow those seeds or make a big mess trying not to swallow them.

Here’s why I’m thinking about seeds today. I’m trying to let them remind me of something. Sometimes you can avoid the peach pits of life, the hard-as-rock difficulties that nobody in her right mind would want to swallow. Sometimes the difficulties aren’t so bad and go down as easily as those grape seeds. Sometimes you can avoid the pesky seeds altogether.

Sometimes, though, in order to enjoy the fruit, it’s best to swallow the whole thing—the tasty and the seed. You might even find out you can swallow the impossible things that come your way—like the peach pit. I did it once, and I’ll bet I can do it again.

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The eating is over—but not the talking, of course!

Joy and Elfrida made the most of clean-up time by including some catch-up time.

How many men does it take to activate a cell phone?

Today we made another trip to Kalo Chorio and the lovely home that has on occasion been our retreat from the heat and bustle of the big city. This time the house was not empty when we arrived. We were greeted at the door by Stahis and Joy, Dafnis’s brother and sister-in-law, just hours after their arrival from their home in the United States. We sat around their table set with cheerful blue and yellow, nibbled on muffins and grapes, sipped tea. We laughed, heard about their long trip from the States, and Dafnis and Stahis told stories from their past. Joy and I talked about little things she plans to do to the house during the month they are here. I can already see her touches in each room.

Cypriots harvest the fruit of the prickly pear and serve it as a slightly sweet dessert.

Up to the carob tree for a snack!

When we had gotten the dishes cleared, I decided to take a walk with my camera and headed up the path that leads… somewhere. It’s really a maze of access trails to aged terraces made almost invisible by vegetation gone to seed. Amazingly, though, this hidden spot also yields fruits and nuts from the trees, the fruit of the prickly pear cactus plants that grow like barbed hedges, and small plots of squash, herbs, and other vegetables. In the midst of all the productive trees, shrubs, cacti, and garden produce is a small shed that houses adolescent chick—fourteen of them.

Flora and fauna are all tended by Marina, the keeper of the key and most industrious woman. Every time we’ve come to the house, Marina shows up, as if by magic she knows we have arrived. She brings produce: grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, figs—and fresh eggs from her laying hens, who surely live nearby (I just haven’t discovered them yet). I climbed the little paths up, up, up until I discovered a real gem: a carob tree filled with curly brown pods. Harvest time was mid-August, and the pods would have been thicker then, juicy, perfect for making carob syrup. These were dryer, but I love being able to come across a carob tree and pluck a chewy snack.

When I got back to the house, we city dwellers said our farewells so that Joy and Stahis could recover from their jet lag. They rested, I’m sure. But I’m also certain they did some more settling in at their Cyprus home sweet home—and preparing for the next visitors who drop by. At some point, we, too, will drop by again. And I know we will be received with Kansas hugs and Cypriot kisses on each cheek.