Lori's Sabbatical

Sunday, May 24We worshiped with a Lutheran congregation today: Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, in the old town of Jerusalem: It was oxygen for the spirit. After weeks of hearing Greek, Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, and assorted other travellers’ tongues; after weeks of being stirred from sleep at 4:30 in the morning for Muslim prayer, singing the liturgy and hymns quenched a thirst I didn’t realize was so deep. The community at Redeemer is, as you might expect, quite international. Most fascinating though was a significant contingent of young adults: pastoral interns, justice and reconciliation workers posted in Bethlehem, students studying Hebrew or archaeology or history; all of them painfully aware and passionately attentive to the ethnic divide between Palestinians and Jews. It was heartening to see a new generation of Lutheran young adults putting their faith into action. It made me wish I could relive my 20s in Jerusalem. Since we were already dressed for church we made our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre after worship. Even in Spring this church is awash with pilgrims of every skin color and dress imaginable. Bright saris and traditional African garb dazzled our eyes; the hushed voices of Peruvians, French-speaking Africans, and white South Africans tickled our ears. But the thing that made the biggest impression on my heart was the incredible (and to me, as an American Lutheran, strangely demonstrative) devotion of the pilgrims: Women pressed roses onto the stone where Jesus is said to have been taken down from the cross; young black men from the Ivory Coast, with tightly braided shoulder-length hair, laid their foreheads on the same stone to pray and remain close to Jesus for a moment. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre sits over the place where Jesus is said to have been crucified, brought down from the cross, laid in the tomb and raised from the dead. And while there is no definitive evidence that this church is the exact spot on which those events took place—since history does not record the distance and precise direction of Golgotha from the Temple Mount—it is no doubt a close approximate. And this church is a compelling reminder that Old Jerusalem is where it all happened; so within the church you shuffle purposefully, along with other followers of Jesus, from the upper chamber that remembers the crucifixion, to the stone slab where Jesus body lay, into the burial chamber from which you also emerge to remember the resurrection. The Holy Sepulchre contains so much faith history, and consequently dominates so much space in Old Jerusalem, to have provoked a Sultan of Muslim-controlled Jerusalem (after the Crusades) to build the glorious Dome of the Rock; he reasoned that in a Muslim Empire it was not right for Islam to be outdone by Christianity.

May 23

One of the members at Calvary has argued for years that the only ministry he would be capable of providing leadership for is a fly-fishing ministry. Well, I'm happy to report that the above photo is evidence that the potential for that ministry is now fully evident to me. The fish you see (about 18 inches in length) is one we saw in the Jordan River at the outlet from the Sea of Galilee (Kinneret). It was right in the area that one Christian group (who happens to own this 100 acres) argues is the actual spot where Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan. (The vast majority of scholars agree it had to have been in the Jordan much further south, near Jerusalem.)

Do you see the possibilities? Calvary could have its own satellite fly-fishing and baptismal ministry in Galilee. And, for those who would prefer to stay closer to home, we could begin doing fly-fishing and baptismal retreats. Who knows what this might do to attract young outdoor enthusiasts--especiallly young men, who seem to be in the minority in churches these days.

Please pray (or laugh about) this ministry possibility--as you see fit.

Capernaum was amazing--ruins of what is most certainly the village that Peter lived in, and a house church that gives us evidence of how the first Christians gathered in worship. The 4th century white synagogue was marvelous, and the strewn remains of its second story and ceiling were more meaningful having walked into the Nazareth Village replica to see how the space would have been arranged.

But the highlight today was Tabgha. This is the name of the site where Jesus is believed to have fed the multitudes with 5 loaves and 2 fish (right, Julia?)--which all four gospel writers tell us about. The church that commemorates this event is built around an outcropping of rock that most certainly would have been visible in Capernaum when Jesus was blessing and breaking bread. Is this the actual rock Jesus stood on? We can't know--only eyewitnesses could say, and even they might contradict each other about the exact spot. But here's what struck me about this space: Not only is it beautiful in its stark simplicity, with mosaic tilework gracing its floors and telling us of Jesus' abundance; but it offers space for a sacred pause to reflect on that gracious abundance.

Doug and the girls and I stopped to pray inside (lighting candles and praying for many and various loved ones and friends before the glorious icons of the Madonna and Child, and Jesus the Christ), we wound our way gently through the many bird mosaics that surround the altar, sat appreciating the clean cut slender marble altar hovering over that ancient rock outcropping, then went outside to watch sparrows feed babies in nests under the breezeway.

Elizabeth read John's version of the feeding of the multitude, then Doug read his preferred Markan account. Then Anna announced to Doug: Daddy I really want to touch the rock where Jesus stood. So Doug and Anna turned around and headed back into the sanctuary, where the chancel had been roped off from us tourists. Doug waited patiently to catch the attention of the Franciscan sister in the sacristy. Eventually she came forward and listened to Doug's whispered request, and before I caught on to what was happening, Anna was being ushered alone to the altar by the sister. I closed my eyes and prayed--both that Anna would savor the moment and take the opportunity to pray on the spot. And then the tears started to wash my eyelids open: Here was my little girl, asking for a holy moment in a sacred spot, and then reverently cherishing what she'd been given. Wow! The fath of a child; it opened me to Jesus anew.

By the way, the prayer Anna laid at Jesus' feet at Tabgha, she later told me, was for her 96-year-old Great Gramma Ina--who is at the top of many of our lists for evidence of God's wonderful generosity.

We met in Tel Aviv on Sunday evening. Elizabeth and I had arrived in the early afternoon and scouted out our next elegant accommodations at the Hayarkon 48, a hostel two blocks of the waterfront. We picked up an exhausted Doug and Anna in the evening and arrived at Hayarkon to cram our possessions into a single room, where we soon added an additional mattress (since only three beds were in the room). After getting our bearings we walked down the waterfront in search of a restaurant to eat at. By the time we were nearly to Jaffa with no restaurant sightings, we turned around and headed back toward Hayarkon. We found a lovely little cafe directly in front of Hayarkon (irony of ironies), where we were served a simple but welcome dinner of humus, pita, various cold vegetables, salmon, and a chicken kabab; it was more than enough. The waitress was relaxed and welcoming (later told us she and the cook were enjoying a glass of wine in the back), and shared with us her philosophy of enjoying good food and drink, relaxed conversation, and taking the good that life brings you. We were grateful for a kind end to a long day.

Next morning I took a jog/walk on the waterfront, making my way to the waterfront walls of Jaffa. These walls have received Islamic forces, Christian Crusaders, and the Apostle Paul--on his various missionary journeys. Jaffa is a small and ancient city that sits overshadowed by its northern neighbor, Tel Aviv. For all the cosmopolitan flare that Tel Aviv offers (I'd liken it to Miami Beach for the number of scantily clad young adults we saw there), Jaffa has its own old world charm. I hope that we will be able to enjoy a meal there before we fly out next week. 

I knew it would come as we traveled through this land of Jesus--lyrics from "Jesus Christ, Superstar." Elizabeth is a fountain of knowledge in many areas, but her memory recall for musicals is frightening. So when we edged our way through Nazareth, I was not surprised to hear "What then to do about Jesus of Nazareth" usher from her lips.

Nazareth is a modern city perched on top of Jesus' own family history. This was his home town--the town in which his mother is though to have received the announcement that she would give birth to him; the town in which he grew up; but also a town that rejected him when he preached in the family synagogue. So the city contains churches dedicated to the Annunciation, a replica village that resembles what Jesus would have know when he grew up there; and a site called "Mount Precipice"--recalling the desire of some to throw Jesus off a cliff after he preached that "a prophet is never received well in his home town."

Nazareth is clearly divided between two areas: Nazareth, which is majority Arab, and Nazareth Illit, which is the Jewish sector of town (and visibly more posh). We stayed in the Sukh (the old Arab shopping quarter) in an old Arab-Christian mansion named for its prior owner, Fauzi Azar. It was an amazing space, with 16-foot high painted ceilings, open area family rooms, and breezy patios. Apart from its lack of air conditioning, it was absolutely charming--and the people were even more so. We met an American-born Jewish woman who now lives in Tel Aviv and writes for the Jerusalem Post; a Russian-Dominican Republic couple from Connecticut; a German woman who writes for European Public Radio; several young men and women working for a midwestern Christian organization called REACH (promoting cross-cultural experience); the Jewish owner of the Inn, Gaby; and the granddaughter of Fauzi Azar who remembers playing in that very space and enjoying family gatherings with her grandparents there.

We arrived in Galilee yesterday. The drop from the mountains (out of Nazareth toward Tiberius) is precipitous, but the view is amazing: Miles of rugged dry hills part to espose Kinneret--the Sea of Galilee. (This photo is looking from Capernaum up to Arbel.) The weather has been milder than in Tel Aviv and Nazareth (where highs were in the high 80s and low 90s), but still humid.

Yesterday was a getting-oriented day: We went to see the Galileen Boat, a first century archaeological find that was exposed when the Sea of Galilee receded due to drought. Some call it the Jesus Boat, which is a stretch, but its date is contemporary with Jesus' ministry, which is enough to inform us of what the boats would have looked like that Peter, Andrew, James and John would have sailed in and fished from.

Our guest house is in Arbel, among the wheat fields, olive groves, bananas, and various other signs of a thriving agriculture in Israel. Kinneret waters this fertility, and the Israelis are clear that without it their livelihood would be threatened.

Sunday, May 10, Aphrodisias, Pamukkale, and HieropolisThis was a day to remember and forget. An unexpected treat: We stopped at Aphrodisias on the way to Pamukkale and Hieropolis. An unexpected and unpleasant consequence is that several members of our tour were audibly and publicly unhappy about arriving at Hieropolis and Pamukkale two hours later than expected.

Aphrodisias is an enormous Greco-Roman ruins halfway between Kusadasi and Denizli in Turkey. The signs pointing to the site hardly do justice to the vast ruined city that covers more acres than any we have seen so far. Pillars riddle the landscape, marble rises under your feet with every step, and the eye wanders across immense agoras and fallen temples. An artist’s school was here also, evidenced by the enormous number of reliefs and steles (grave stones) there.

The enormity of the site was only outdone by one of the last reconstructed specimens of its artistic and devout tributes to Aphrodite, a multiple columned, ornately carved stark white marble entryway to the temple of Aphrodite. With neck craned and eyes alert to every detail, I noted the various friezes, geometric edgings, and intricately elaborate corinthian capstones. It was awe-inspiring.

Tuesday, May 5, Corinth

We headed by train for the Peloponnese today; Corinth was our destination. The church at Corinth was probably the congregation with which Paul had the greatest conflict; the evidence is in the letters: Paul remarks that he has heard reports from “Chloe’s people” about personality contests. Some claim to be followers of Paul, some of Apollos (see Acts 18), some Cephas, and others Christ. Paul tells them to stop with the allegiance game; nothing matters but Jesus Christ crucified. 

So why the contest? Arriving at Corinth you hardly need to look far to see evidence of just such divided loyalties within the community at large: Corinth, like so many other Greco-Roman sites, is a tribute to multiple allegiances. The most sizable remaining structure is the Temple of Apollo; also the Emperor Augustus (of Luke 2 fame) dedicated a temple to his sister, Octavia; further referenced among the ruins, though somewhat mysteriously, is a Sacred Springs, which is not part of the sophisticated water system that was developed there, but a sacred building believed to be dedicated to a young woman who was savagely abducted from her family and murdered in (one of the many) times of war—and here commemorated in worship. Add to these the various market shops—and there were many in Corinth—and the city tells a bit of the story about what drew the Corinthians loyalties in many directions.But maybe war and the economy tell a broader tale: Corinth was a major city because of its position on the isthmus that separated the Corinthian and Saronic gulfs (before the Corinthian canal was finished—a millennias-long project). It was the major thruway for boats that wanted to avoid the southern tip of the Peloponnese, which was notoriously stormy. Ships were essentially dragged from one end of the isthmus to the other, to deliver goods from east to west or west to east. So Corinth grew an economy out of this need. That economy was able to support civic development and military prowess. In fact, at one point the Corinthians (who were constantly vying to outdo the Athenians) joined forces with Athens against the Persians, whose appetite for the west was unsated.So religious, political, economic, and sociological forces could very well have created the perfect storm that fueled the Corinthian congregation’s conflict. When you are tired of being second to Athens, when your pastor has told you to surrender all the familiar rituals (among them cult prostitution, well documented in the history annals), and the Romans have razed your city and rebuilt it in their own image, you’re desperate to find something you can call your own. No wonder they grabbed onto whomever they thought they could trust. And, given that Paul was away from them (hence the letter writing rather than face-to-face sermons), he couldn’t regularly remind them that Christ was the one who had died for them, and no one else should or could be trusted with their lives.

Misc Thoughts: Corinth

We had an “it’s a small world” experience today: when Elizabeth and I walked down the little town below ancient Corinth we saw a sign in one of the buses that said Grünewald Guild. (The Grünewald Guild is a Lutheran artist’s and retreat community in Plain, Washington, just above Leavenworth. Doug and I have visited there on several occasions with a pastors’ text study group.) After lunch we passed a large group who was just arriving at a Taberna; we listened intently for English speaking. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of a woman I thought I recognized. I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she was Liz Kaemmerer. Yes, she said. I reminded her that I had seen her most recently 12 years before, when Elizabeth was a newborn; she graciously had scooped Elizabeth into her arms so I could eat a meal with both hands free (a rare and welcomed opportunity). So here we were in Corinth in a country where the Greek Orthodox Church is the only church, a bunch of Lutherans from Washington State, rekindling a faith friendship. 

Thursday, May 7, Patmos 

We arrived yesterday morning in Samos in order to catch the boat to Patmos in the afternoon. Pythagorio, Samos, is a charming little port on the southeast side of Samos, which hosts yachters from around the world; so we were obvious outsiders without the topsiders and weathered tans. The boat to Patmos is a three-hour ride that stops at a few small scrubby islands with populations that sometimes number under a hundred.  In contrast to the barrenness of these other islands, Patmos looms radiant as you enter its port: Beautiful green hillsides embrace crisp white Ionian structures with elegant open arches, welcoming the traveler to rest. And, tired from an early flight and an hours-long boat ride, we were more than happy to drop our bags and stay.           

Our destination today was the Monastery of St. John the Divine, established in 1088 by Agios (Saint) Christodoulos—whose name wonderfully means “servant of Christ.” Elizabeth needed time to laze and do homework in the morning, so I walked the road up to Chora where the monastery sits perched at the top of the hill. Goats, salamanders, and chickens greeted me along the way. The temperature must have been in the low 80s, so the tree-lined road was a welcome companion. Traffic is considerably less frenzied on Patmos than other places in Greece, so my walk was not as harrowing as I expected. I did receive looks of bewilderment from passing drivers; taxis slowed as they passed me—sure I was just walking until I happened upon a ride. I sense that physical exertion is not a priority for most Greeks, so why some woman would walk 5kms to her destination must have perplexed them.      

In the afternoon, we took the bus to the monastery (my small accommodation to my 13-year-old, who had had her fill of walking). From the base of the city we weaved our way through the white-washed homes and shops, until we ascended the gray-stone stairs to the monastery. The structure of St. John the Divine rises stark and gray amidst the other more radiant and colorful structures of Chora. It looks like a fortress more than a monastery; and, in a sense, its sanctity has been preserved by the castle walls that have, through the centuries, accumulated around it to protect it.           

The monastery’s interior is much less foreboding that its exterior. It is comprised of a series of small rooms connected by breezeways and staircases. We entered the narthex and viewed the well-worn (blackened-by-age and, I think, beeswax candles) frescoes of Adam and Eve being banished from the garden; three steps more and we stood in the entry to the main sanctuary. The sanctuary, which hosts the glorious fresco of Christ the Pantocrator (creator of heaven and earth; cf John 1), is surprisingly narrow, but lofty. And its height is what you notice: Light streams from a few well-placed arched windows in the dome where the Pantocrator hovers overhead, sending beams of light down and lifting your eyes to the Lord of heaven and earth.           

Much will catch your attention in this tiny space, gold-leaf, ornate wood carvings cover the forward wall; icons large and minute are littered among the sometimes three-dimensional wood carvings; themes of six-winged seraphs repeat themselves on the doors. But it was the Christ that summoned my eyes upward. I lingered on the rich reds and blues and earth tones of the icon; my eyes met the beckoning but not stern gaze of Jesus, who without a word called to my heart. Five more steps from the center of the main sanctuary in any direction and you land in another secondary sanctuary of lesser size. (Evidently, at some point in Greek Orthodox tradition the patriarch forbade holding worship in the same space more than once in two hours, so these adjacent spaces were built around the central sanctuary to accommodate hourly worship.)           

The museum at St. John’s holds its own surprises and trophies; to name a few: bound books of the 15^th century from Italy, including comedies, dramas, and other non-theological texts; letters from Turkish magistrates calling for resolution to a series of murders that had been committed in the name of Nikolas; a scroll containing the signature of Charles VI of Germany calling for protection of the monastery; icons of Mary and Jesus, Jesus and Lazarus, John of Revelation side by side with the young gospel-writer John.  Regarding the bound books, the curator explained that the Greek Orthodox Church does not hold the same taboos about “secular” literature as the western church does; and since, under Ottoman rule, these Italian texts were some of the only available in the Greek language, they were hungrily acquired by the church to expand the minds and hearts of the students who came to study theology here. One other note, possibly not worth mentioning—but fitting into the “surprise” category—was the case of bejeweled pectoral crosses in the gift shop selling for 5000 Euros each. (Needless to say, these item were beyond our travel budget, and caused my American Protestant “gift-to-be-simple” heart to stop momentarily.) A final stop back in the central sanctuary to meet the eyes of the Christ put my soul to rest, before we walked back down the mountain.             

Sunday, May 3, Delphi

Who knew that the ancient Greek world (5^th century B.C.E.) had such a complex religious and political system that interacted with so much of the ancient Mediterranean? But Delphi is evidence of that. Delphi is the place where the oracle of Apollo was listened for. A woman of 50 years or older, called a Pythia (pa priestess), was groomed for the task of delivering the words of Apollo to those who called upon him in worship. The religious system involved more than a question, however, as the site of Delphi indicates. Delphi had an agora (marketplace), several treasuries (places to hold not money, but its equivalent treasures in gold, bronze, and other wealth), sanctuaries where sacrifice was made—the largest sanctuary being that of Apollo. The site also has a theater above the sanctuary, and above that still a stadium (where running and other athletic events were demonstrated).            Most remarkable to me were the sculptures from the site housed in the Delphi Museum, which is (according to my guidebook) only second to the National Archaeological Museum. In my humble opinion Delphi is superior, in this sense: When you are at Delphi and have seen the ruins, and then are able to go into the Museum adjacent to the ruins and view the actual marble Sphinx (from Naxos) that hovered 20 feet up on a majestic pillar before Apollo’s temple, the art comes to life. These religious statuary are not only impressive for their artistic detail, but for their majesty—one can begin to understand why thousands flocked to this remote, steep, hilltop site; how their jaws must have gone slack as they craned their necks in awe of the Sphinx and the dancing women announcing that they had arrived (surely out of breath, and ready to drop from exhaustion) at this—for  them—most holy of sites.            Amusingly, the oracles that were delivered to expectant pilgrims were regularly ambiguous (not unlike that horoscope you read in the newspaper every now and then, or that fortune you pull from the cookie after eating Chinese food). One story has it that in the mid-6^th century BCE, a Pythia delivered an oracle to King Croesus of Lydia that announced that if he crossed the River Halys to make war against Cyrus the Great, an empire would fall. He took this oracle to be an announcement of his victory, but the empire that fell was his.

 Monday, May 4, Athens

We toured ancient Athenian sites today: Hadrian’s Arch, Olympeian Zeus’ Temple, Hadrian’s Library (more a resplendent showpiece than an actual library we’re told), the Agora (the Stoa Museum, Haphaestus’ Temple—the most intact temple in Athens), the Areopagus (the rocky Mars Hill, where Paul preached his culturally-perceptive sermon about an “unknown god”), and the Acropolis (high city)—on which is perched a grand entryway, Athena Nike’s Temple, the Erechthion where the well-documented Caryatids stand as pillars to the gods Athena and Poseiden, and the Parthenon. The view of Athens from the Acropolis is grand, the view on the Acropolis is almost desolate. The structures on this high rock have existed for millennia; they are indeed a tribute to the sophistication of a culture that was recording history and developing civilization long before most of our ancestors could read, let alone write. But each of these monuments has fallen victim to theft, natural decay and disaster, and war, war, and more war. So much of what was on the Acropolis can only be seen in museums. We saw some of these wonders in the National Archaeological Museum. But, unfortunately for us, the Acropolis Museum is being relocated to a larger site at the base of the Acropolis, and was not open for viewing.

May 1

Wednesday, April 29

Time does not fly when you are flying—or recovering from flying These past two days have been a blur: Chicago, Zurich, Greece. And just when I thought we'd gotten the time zone down I found out I was off by an hour. (This morning we got a wake up call at 6am; my watch and clock showed 5am. Boy was I glad for that wake up call, or we wouldn’t now be on the plane headed for Kavala.)

Kavala is the modern city where Neapolis once was. Paul would have passed through this port on his way to various parts of Northern Greece. Traffic in this little bustling sea town was crazy. Double parking, cargo trucks and compact cars weaving back and forth, motorcycles coming at you in your lane. We finally decided that we wouldn't stop to eat until we'd left town, so we wouldn't have to navigate the parking.  Lunch was Spanakopita and a can of soda--those were the few words the bakery owner recognized.

We are headed for the ruins of Philppi. I’m driving and Elizabeth will navigate. We got lost last night in the Plaka, so we’ll see how the driving goes. I’m hoping major thruways will be easier to spot than the tiny street names that were on our map of Athens.

Evening, April 29, 2009

Philippi:  We visited the ruins. Weren’t sure where to start so we bought the pictorial narrative about them. They are, like many Greek ruins, a mixture of Greek, Roman, and Greek again. Most notable was how many sanctuaries to various gods had been created by the Romans, and how many of these, as well as secular sites, were built on (or their rubble used) to create a new building. We sat in the theater and Elizabeth tested the acoustics (“My Mom is weird,”she whispered. “I heard that perfectly, Elizabeth,” I whispered back.) She also posed on the Roman toilet (pants up, of course), with a coy look on her face. We hunted for Artemis’ sanctuary—she was the goddess of the Ephesians  before Paul knocked that industry off course--and after several attempts turning the map and getting reoriented, we found it: marble rubble spread across the ground. We even saw a small underground niche that is referred to (with quotes) as Paul’s Prison.

All the ruins at Philippi were like puzzle pieces waiting to be put back together. My understanding is that the cost is so great, already millions have been spent on this and many other projects, that the process sits idle. The obsessive-compulsive person in me wanted to start rolling pillars into place and matching corinthian capstone pieces to one another.

If I ever held the illusion that 21^st-century western civilizations possess more sophisticated builders than the Greeks (or Romans, etc.), that misconception has been dispelled quickly. The architects of Philippi were able to lift thousands of pounds of marble and other stone, and much of it at Philippi was erected in the name of the cross and Paul’s missionary church.

Yes. You read that title correctly! We left at a reasonable hour this morning, and made our way rapidly toward Thessaloniki (after all the recommended speed on the thruways is 130kms/hr).By the way, a short aside about driving a rental car in Greece. Disregard all lane markers, speed limits, signals, and logic. It's every woman for herself out here. Greeks weave between lanes, hover over two lanes, drive on the shoulder of the road, generally do as they see fit, and use the horn alot. I've had the distinct feeling that I'm in a game of Frogger these past two days.Back on the road to Thessaloniki. Traffic was manageably smooth, and the freeway flowed right into the downtown area which is massive (the second largest town in Greece). Now, take all the information I just provided you with about car travel and add pedestrians; pedestrians walking down the center of the road, weaving through not-quite-stopped cars, washing your windshield despite your clear protests to the contrary. Now add to that double parked cars EVERYWHERE--did I say cars, I meant to include trucks with furniture being unloaded while double parked. Oh, and did I mention the couples kissing passionately just beyond the double-parked cars (an inch or two away from traffic?By the time we found a kind soul (a young man at a gas station) to guide us --using English--toward our hotel, it was after 1pm. Elizabeth had uttered the word "dying" several times, to express her anxiety about the game of Frogger we were in, and at that point we still had to make our way out of Thessaloniki, because the hotel we were staying in was south of town in Perea. When we got to Perea we asked several different locals for help in finding the hotel, and they tried valiantly to use their limited English to guide us in the right direction. We drove nearly every one of the unnamed streets of Perea, until by accident Elizabeth discovered the only sign for the hotel. Suffice it to say that we did not make it into the city to tour three sites we were planning to see: The Archaeological Museum, the White Tower (part of a Turkish fortification of the seaport), and Agios Dimitrios, the largest church in Greece. I make no promises that we will see them tomorrow, as we are headed for Meteora  And, quite frankly, right now a more rural, geological wonder sounds incredibly enticing after today's travails.