Jesus christ, it’s been a while, hasn’t it.

Last update was way back in Kastellorizo, and I’m already in Florence, after I passed through Rhodes, Athens and Mount Pelion, took a ferry to Bari, crossed over from Greece to Italy by sea, visited the rocky cave city of Matera, and walked the cobbled streets of Naples. 

And I haven’t even really told you about Cyprus, have I? 

I guess I’m not amazing at this blogging thing. 

Anyway, there’s a lot to catch you guys up on. 

I think my problem is that I’m feeling a restlessness that not only makes it difficult to sit down and write, but which makes it difficult to sit down at all. I am not, fortunately, talking about hemorrhoids. Maybe hemorrhoids of the soul. 

On the one hand, there’s something taxing about covering these long distances, and seeing new places, constantly having to adapt to new cultures, mannerisms, languages. On the other, I just haven’t found the peace of mind I need to feel good about settling down somewhere for a week or so; so far, my gut tells me that’ll probably only happen in Wales. 

But Florence comes close. It’s a beautiful city, with an ancient, scholarly vibe which I find very reminiscent of Cambridge and Oxford – maybe it’s just because it’s overcast and chilly today – and despite the breathtaking architecture and innumerable aesthetic masterpieces strewn all over its urban landscape, I’ve found it easier today to sit down and arrange my thoughts rather than rush from one piazza to another. 

I’m in a book store’s caffè, a big, red mug of cafe americano steaming on the table in front of me, a light drizzle and cigarette smoke mingling in the chilly air outside the window. This feels like as good a place as any to recount my adventures so far. 

Cyprus

After sailing for about 27 hours straight, weathering a slightly nauseating night shift alone in the Poodle‘s cockpit, the blank horizon began to give way to a looming mass of land: Cyprus. 

As we inched closer, currents and wind working against us, I could start making out details on the shore front. At first, ridges and roads, then towering skyscrapers and immense cruise ships anchored off-shore in the relative safety of Limassol’s natural harbour, then finally masts and wave breakers and low buildings and people: the Limassol Marina was ahead, chatting with us on the radio, explaining exactly where we should dock. 

Limassol’s marina turned out to be a perfect microcosm of my entire Cypriot experience; located in stunning surroundings, near a small but historical city center, the marina was packed full of Israelis, rich Russians and the odd Englishman, all pouring unbelievable amounts of money into the zoo they’ve built for themselves there. In stark relief, the relative squalor of the streets and infrastructure used by Cypriots themselves was almost shocking. 

My overall experience of Cyprus, as you can probably tell, wasn’t a positive one. It felt like a gigantic tourist trap catering to the cheapest expectations of what “rich” should be, at the expense and exploitation of everyone involved, foreigners and locals alike. 

It wasn’t all bad, though. More than anything, I was struck by how similar Cyprus was to Israel. It wasn’t just the weather, the geology, the flora and fauna – the people themselves all have familiar faces, and speak in familiar voices with familiar gesticulations. Their phonetics are the same, it’s just the language that’s different. Indeed, even their major geopolitical concern is an illegal military occupation in the northern part of the island.

I think that’s when I first started realising – a realisation that would later deepen in Greece – that despite not having open borders around it, and despite the migratory origins of the Jewish population in Israel, Israeli society is still very much part of the cultural and ethnic continuum of the Eastern Mediterranean. 

And the feeling, I’m convinced, is mutual. 

Cypriots (and later Greeks, and to a lesser extent Italians) were absolutely convinced I was a local, finding it hard to accept that I didn’t speak the language.
After chatting with some of them, many told me as much: “Wow! You look Greek/Italian! You even sound like us and move like us when you speak!” 

It’s an interesting observation – one bolstered by covering distance at a human pace, rather than a jet-fuelled one. 

In Greece, this would become even more obvious – but we’ll get to that in a minute. 

To sum Cyprus up, it’s not a place I’d recommend or encourage visiting, except as a pit stop for sailors coming to or from Israel. This impression, of course, is based primarily on my experience in marinas and anchorages – although I did go on a few short hikes, which were nice, but which can’t really compete with Greece and its islands, as I would soon find out. Perhaps if I went into the mountains my impressions would have been different. I’m sure I’ll get the chance, since my time on the Poodle was quickly making it clear that I find sailing and yacht life very appealing, and you can’t live the yacht life in Israel without going to Cyprus.

More on this in the next post.