Monday, October 23, 2017

Acropolis


This is probably my all-time favorite travel story—mostly, I think, because it has never been explained, debunked or proven any less impossible or remarkable with the passing of time. Just the memory of the experience still makes me giddy, puts an instant grin on my face and immediately rekindles the childlike wonder of the magical time that surrounded the incident. The story also happens to be an excerpt from a forthcoming "philosophical novel" (yes, this is actually a legitimate category) that I am in the process of writing. Apolamváno! 

                               *                      *                      *                      *                      *

It was October of 2009 and it was my first time traveling outside the U.S. on my own. I was forced to travel alone after a friend bailed on me at the last minute on a rock climbing trip to the island of Kalymnos, Greece. I was adamant that I wasn’t going to let the change of events affect me, but to be honest, I was slightly nervous about traveling alone and secretly concerned that the trip would turn out to be a disaster.


I spent the first few days of my trip slogging around the city of Athens taking in historical sites as I waited for the ferry to carry me off to the mystical, mountainous island of Kalymnos where I was hopeful that I would meet others in need of climbing partners.

By my third day in Athens I began to feel nauseatingly sorry for myself as I watched happy couples saunter-about arm-in-arm contently with non-bailing partners and reliable, trustworthy companions while I collapsed into a childish, histrionic funk that forced me to reconsider just about every decision that I’d made in my life up to that point. At the epicenter of that funk, no doubt, were concerns over my long-time single status and the lack of love and the scarcity of intimate friends and close relationships that led to such a lonesome state of affairs.

To distract myself from the pathetic hole of despair that I was falling deeper into by the second, I decided to kill some time by wandering back onto the grounds of what is arguably the most historic site in all of Greece: the Acropolis. Though I had already spent significant hours exploring the legendary grounds, the hefty admission price granted me several days’ access to the park. As the staggering cost of European tourism was already beginning to eat into my modest travel budget, it seemed not only a practical financial decision, but an ideal setting for wallowing in self-pity as well.  

I hadn’t gone very far into the park, in fact, I had barely gotten past the entrance station, when I was compelled to sit down on a large patch of sporadically maintained grass that grew in front of a small rocky field under the shade of a short, stout olive tree.

From just behind my seated position on the grass I could still hear muffled chit-chat and relaxed, playful laughter coming from idle park workers in-between customers at the entrance station. To my left, smiling couples and happy faces from all parts of the globe ambled past intermittently on a paved path that ran through the park. To my right, just a stone’s throw away, beyond a patchy tangle of shrubs, bushes and trees was a tall, spiky wrought iron fence that circled the entire perimeter of the site. Beyond that rusting, archaic fence sat the very city of Athens itself where close to four million olive-skinned, chestnut-eyed souls went about their ordinary city-dwelling lives: raising families, running businesses, attending schools and so on.

I sat in cross-legged position randomly staring at a short, rocky embankment that was capped off with a flat, well-manicured grassy berm on which dozens of identical-sized steel cages filled with seemingly random white stones—most too large to be carried by a single person—had been padlocked shut, catalogued and placed in waiting as part of a massive restoration project that had been going on for decades. Eventually those caged stones would be removed from their temporary enclosures and placed as pieces in a giant three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that would manifest as a fully restored historic relic.


Out of habit, I closed my eyes softly and began to meditate as I’d been taught as a student at the Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado, where I had earned a degree in psychology years earlier. 



As I sat quietly focusing on my breath and observing my wandering, chaotic thoughts as impartially as the moment would allow, it dawned on me that I was missing out on a significant opportunity. It wasn’t often, I realized with an unexpected spark of optimism, that I found myself in a location so heavily soaked and infused with the collective wisdom of such a great number of exceptional individuals—brilliant men and women who lived and died on these sacred grounds, birthed philosophies, fought wars of ideals, perished for causes (both just and unjust), produced artistic masterpieces in all disciplines, and unwittingly altered the very course of western civilization.

With this realization, for some reason, came a desperate, inane request: Please send a sign, was the request. For God’s sake, please send me a sign . . .

Sign of what? I have absolutely no idea. In retrospect, it was such a vague, ambitious appeal that in truth, it should have been met with little more than blank, puzzled stares and apathetic shoulder shrugs by any entity, dead, living or otherwise worth their existential salt. To complicate matters all the more, I added an ultimatum: I will not leave until my wish has been granted.
  
It is important to note that other than the atypical setting, this scenario was not entirely unfamiliar to me. Truth be told, I’d played out this same scene with minor variations in numerous locales and at various times throughout my life. Typically, after sitting far longer than I’d intended, boredom would set in, a leaf would flutter past or a bird would fly overhead and I’d consider it ‘sign enough', thank the universe for its lukewarm, prosaic offering, and proceed on with my day.

What happened next however, was by far the most remarkable, most unexplained event that has ever occurred in my life.

Literally within minutes of my frivolous appeal, I sat, mouth agape, eyes blinking erratically in disbelief as a large . . . mountain lion? . . . bobcat? . . .tiger? walked directly across my field of vision on the grassy berm where the padlocked cages of ancient stones stood not thirty feet away from where I sat under the shade of that olive tree.

I was alarmed yet not frightened as the large, tannish-orange, unmistakably male feline with the thick, faintly-striped ropy tail and the muscular hindquarters materialized out of thin-air and made its way gracefully across the manicured lawn directly in my line of sight. Impulsively, absentmindedly, I grabbed my cameraa last minute gift from a friend given to me just days before I boarded my planeand fired-off one quick photo, shot from the hip, as the large animal disappeared behind the trees that obscured the iron fence that separated the park from the city. The whole incident couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds.

I sat elated, disoriented, and feeling as if I’d just walked into a dream, questioning what had just taken place. I looked around foolishly for answers, but none came. I scanned the immediate area expectantly for other onlookers, but incredibly there were none. Impossible as it may seem, on a site that hosts on average ten thousand visitors each day, there was not a single person in the vicinity who happened to be looking in that same direction at that same time.

Not knowing what to do next, I made my way to my feet slowly, feeling euphoric, drunk and dizzy and began walking in the same direction the large animal had been traveling before he disappeared. I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t going crazy, you see, and the way I figured it, once the animal reached the border—not more than twenty or thirty feet farther—he would be forced to turn in one of two directions: either left, deeper into the park along the fence line, or right, toward the main entrance of the grounds. Either way, I figured, I’d have another chance to re-see the creature that I was pretty-sure I had just seen.


Even shuffling along awkwardly and unsure as I was, it didn’t take long to reach the outer fence. I looked to the right. Nothing. I looked left. Nothing. There was absolutely no sign of any abnormally large, impossibly-placed feline in either direction. The large cat seemed to have disappeared just as he had appeared: materializing into thin air. The thought dawned on me that he could have doubled back toward me, but of course there was simply no way that I would not have seen him if he did. If he had somehow managed to sneak past me—well, I can’t even begin to imagine the chaos that would have ensued if the large carnivorous creature had managed to wander right smack into the middle of the most densely populated area in the most popular tourist attraction in all of Athens. Imagine if you will, a mountain lion or tiger taking a leisurely stroll in the center of Central Park on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June and you will probably get the idea.

I stood there stupidly for several minutes trying to figure out what my next move should be when I was informed by one of the guards at the entrance station that visitors were not permitted in the area that I had roamed into.

“But . . . but . . .” I blathered on like a drunken idiot before realizing I had no real way to explain and simply gave up. 

I wandered back to my grassy seat under the olive tree and tried to wrap my mind around what had just taken place when I suddenly remembered the photo I had taken. I wasn’t sure if I had focused the camera or even pointed the lens in the right direction.

I held my breath while I rifled through my 'recent photo file', hoping, praying for tangible proof of the impossible and—lo and behold, there it was, plain as day: a clear, auto-focused, digitally captured image of the very creature I had recalled seeing: a large jungle cat of some sortan animal that would certainly be considered out of place in any metropolitan city anywhere in the worlddisappearing behind the mint-green, sunlit trees, the bulk of its enigmatic face obscured by an especially large, leafy branch. (It is worthy to note that most mentions of large cats found anywhere in Greece are typically only in mythological stories).

I sat there for quite some time staring at the illogical but undeniable image that was captured on my camera’s remarkably tiny screen before eventually returning to my guesthouse, clearly in a much different state of mind than I had been when I left. During the short walk back I struggled to find a way to rationalize what I had seen. Could it have been some kind of zoo-escapee, I wondered? A park mascot of some sort? Perhaps, I even considered for a moment, these creatures are somehow . . . common in Athens? Any way that I tried to rationalize it, it made no sense. I needed the opinion of a local. 


The woman that ran my guesthouse was the first person I felt comfortable asking.

Her face lit up instantly: part horror, part delight, part shocked disbelief as she raised her voice to a near-shout in lilted, broken English: “You have seen . . . THIS? . . . AT ACROPOLIS!”
                    
                            *                      *                      *                      *                      *


In the days, weeks, months and years that followed, people often asked: "Was 'that' (the large cat, I presume) the sign that you had asked for?" 



To this I say: Umm . . . no? Not exactly.



Don't misunderstand. 



Seeing that incredible animal appear at that particular moment was far more than I could have ever hoped for or expected, but honestly, I would have gladly accepted anything that was as equally 'obvious' as a sign. The implausible nature of seeing that particular creature in that particular setting did, I admit, make it considerably more difficult to rationalize as an ordinary event 'imagined' as extraordinary, yet I can think of an infinite number of other possible events that could have taken place that I would have welcomed with equal enthusiasm. 



More important than the event itself, I believe, was the change in attitude that overcame me. It was immediate and it was palpable and it seemed to imbue my trip with a certain magic that felt as if it seeped its way into every interaction, every event, and every activity throughout the stay; it gave me a story to share with locals and foreigners alike, and the mysterious and unexplained nature of the event seemed to allow me to connect with others on a slightly deeper level than I normally might have and open up conversations on topics that are rarely broached by strangers. 



And, finally: No . . . .

To reiterate: No one has ever been able explain what it is that I saw that afternooneven, I might add a' big cat expert' that examined the photo at the urging of a friend who became intrigued with the story after I had posted it on Facebook when it first occurred. All the expert could do was to confirm that the image was in fact a “large jungle cat” of some sort (I assume this is because the majority of the cat’s face is concealed behind the trees). 


Honestly, I kind of enjoy the fact that it has remained a mystery all these years...




                                 *                      *                      *                      *                      *