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Jewels of the Mediterranean
Seven ports in 10 daysthe perfect remedy for those aching for the perfect vacation. >Villages of Snow As my wife and I filed onto tour bus No. 12, a man behind us in line asked, “If it’s Tuesday, this must be Malta?” It was, and it was. The Mediterranean island republic of Malta was the second-to-the-last stop on our 10-day cruise aboard Holland America Line’s ms Noordam. We had begun our voyage outside Rome on a Monday, made stops in resurgent Dubrovnik, Croatia; sun-drenched Corfu; historic Katakolon and wind-swept Santorini, Greece; and busy Kusadasi, Turkey, before floating slowly into the amazing port of Valletta, Malta, eight days later. We were scheduled to stop in Messina, Sicily, on Wednesday, then disembark back near Rome on Thursday. Ten days, seven ports, five countries. No wonder the man was confused. The secret to trips like thiswhat some might call the voyage of a lifetimeis to pace yourself; budget time for sitting in a cafe, sipping some wine, enjoying the views and savoring those shining gems that highlight any trip. For my wife and me, the two brightest of the seven ports were the Greek island of Santorini and our Tuesday stop, Malta.
About halfway into our 12-hour stay on Santorini, we were perched on a windy wall outside the Santos Winery, staring at the sea below and the white, cliff-clinging villages in the distance. We were relishing the moment, enjoying one of the most spectacular views anywhere. When the Noordam eased into Santorini’s crescent harbor earlier that morning, we had looked at those same limestone villages sprinkled high up on the steep cliffs and mistaken them for snoweven in the Mediterranean summer. Touring, we learned that crescent-shaped Santorini is merely an arc of the mostly submerged rim of a giant volcano. In 1450 B.C., the volcanic island of Thira exploded in one of the most cataclysmic eruptions ever, leaving behind only Santorini and its neighboring isles. Some legends claim Thira was home to the lost city of Atlantis. By mid-afternoon, our exploration of the island’s legends took us to Firi, its largest village. We walked up and down its winding streets, alleyways and stairways, stopping to browse the shops, sample the foods andinstinctivelystare out at the view. After dinner at Zafora, a small restaurant nestled on one of the highest points in the village, we chose the teleferic (cable car) rather than a donkey ride to get us back down the cliff to the harbor. An hour or so later, we sat on our stateroom’s veranda as the ship weighed anchor and pulled slowly out to sea, taking us away from the snow villages and on to another landfall adventure.
Valletta, Malta, is a fortress city built by the Order of the Knights of St. John in the late 16th century after they had successfully repulsed an invading force of more than 40,000 Ottoman Turks. The walled city would protect their island against the Mediterranean’s never-ending clashes of cultures. We first traveled by bus to a glass-blowing factory, a pottery workshop, a winery and finally to Marsaxlokk, a fishing village noted for its brightly painted fishing boats, called luzzu (light). Later, we strolled on our own down Valletta’s Republic Street, the city’s commercial, cultural spine. We didn’t want to leave Malta without seeing St. John’s Co-Cathedral, the country’s spiritual and historical center, a magnificent repository of art and heritage. The cathedral is dedicated to St. John the Baptist, the order’s patron saint. From the outside, the stone structure is stocky, plain and severe. Inside, it is a breathtaking, radiant celebration of baroque flamboyance; colorful works of art and sculpture grace every side chapel and altar. The sanctuary features a sculpture by Giuseppe Mazzuoli depicting the baptism of Christ by John the Baptist. In the cathedral’s oratory hang two of the most renowned paintings of the Renaissance, Caravaggio’s The Beheading of St. John the Baptist and his St. Jerome. What’s most amazing about the cathedral isn’t its walls or ceiling, but its floor: nothing but inlaid marble slabs, hundreds of them, each uniquely decorated with a colorful coat of arms. Beneath each marble slab lie the remains of an honorable knight of St. John.
During our shore excursion on the famed Greek isle of Corfu, we visited the 18th-century Greek Orthodox Monastery of the Virgin Mary, prominent on a hilltop above the resort area of Paleokastritsa. After our monastery tour, as we relaxed at a nearby cafe, one of the monks walked over to take a break of his own. He seemed as old as the monastery itselfbearded, long-haired, dressed in a drab, flowing robea figure right out of the Middle Ages. He sat down, looked over at my wife, winked and lit up a cigarette. At ancient Olympia, about 25 miles inland from the Peloponnesian harbor town of Katakolon, we walked the ruins of the sacred site of the original Olympic Games, held from the eighth century B.C. until the fourth century. I stood at one of the 20 stone starting blocks in the open-air Olympic stadium, ready to run, imagining more than 40,000 Greeks cheering. Messina, the Sicilian city closest to mainland Italy, was our final port of call before returning to Rome for our flight home. At the end of such an amazing journey, perhaps we were both happy and sad that the voyage was coming to an end. But the memories that adorned this trip would be treasured forever, private jewels of a Mediterranean adventure. |
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