October 21, 2017:
Journal note, Friday December 21, 1979: "unknown cheap hotel, Kyparissia".
It's a small town and as we drive around its center scouting lunch I have no memory at all of ever having been here.
It's possible the place has evolved with time, so that it no longer resembles my specific experience of that night in winter thirty-eight years ago. Or that the light is different, or any number of other possibilities.
I can reconstruct the day. We began in Kalamata, took a bus to Pylos in the morning. Toured the site — utterly breathtaking — the very bathtub — I mean no kidding that exact bathtub — described by Homer in The Odyssey, in which Telemachus is bathed by Polykaste, Nestor's youngest daughter, in a welcoming ceremony from which he emerges looking "just like" a god. Astonishing. From there we hitched a ride on the back of a tractorful of olives to the nearby town of Chora, talking of Greece and America with the friendly young driver who'd lived in Chicago for a time. We would have toured the Archaeological Museum there, although I have no memory of it whatsoever. Finally toward day's end we'd have made our way to Kyparissia, probably by bus, ten ish miles up the coast. There would have been a hunt for a hostel which seemingly failed since we finished in a hotel; a negotiation over rates which the proprietor undoubtedly resented; food, probably bread and milk which is what my two thrifty schoolchums lived on during that leg of the trip. And probably a couple of hours of me pining for my semi-estranged GF, or for girls at home at school, tossing confusedly 'til late unable to make decisions. I remember Pylos vividly, 'cos pictures; and the tractor vividly, 'cos fun. The three towns are total blanks. I think I've repressed much of that trip 'cos trauma and heartache.
Travel now is radically different. Everyone speaks English; I no longer look like a hippie drug addict; and my wallet stuffed with platinum cards opens pretty much any door you'd care to experience. Perhaps most fundamentally, we have a car, so that whole days are no longer wasted hitching rides or researching bus schedules. Now we drive the ten ish miles and invest our time exploring without hurry. The archaeology, or the food, or the beer.
I find the experience repeating throughout this trip. I remember the scenes that are in my photos, along with certain emotionally-intense moments typically revolving around my then-wayward love and our mutual confusion. The rest is missing, or gray. It's odd, because my memory is generally extremely vivid.